THANK YOU FOR SWALLOWING MY CUM
I tell cats on the street, ‘Hey kitty, she swallowed my cum!’
I told the shy Indian woman in the corner shop, ‘Do not be afraid,
for she swallowed my cum!’ I even told my mum but she
burned her elbow on the frying pan, and then showed me
a pile of depressing bank statements as my dad blew a perfect
ring of smoke that broke like the ghost of a cheap wedding
band above the empty fruit bowl. While pissing into the sea
on a beautiful day in Barmouth last week, I cupped
my hands around my stoned smile and yelled, ‘Hey sunset,
she swallowed my cum!’ but it shrugged between misty hills
as the tide rolled over my shoes and my ex-wife hates me.
Or she sometimes hates me. And she never swallowed my cum.
What am I doing? Where am I going? Are you okay?
Can I get you anything? I won’t swallow your cum
but I could make you a sandwich. I should probably
send her a message, make sure it’s cool to share this
poem. I don’t want to make her feel awkward;
awkward that I saw myself clean in her company, my blood
baptismal water; awkward that I saw myself happily dying
as her fingers scribbled sad stories onto my pale chest;
awkward that I tell cats, and nervous Indian women,
and my stressed parents, and amazing, horrible,
gore-porn sunsets that Oh Wow! when she swallowed
my cum I forgot how dead I am because when I’m living
inside her mouth I don’t even need to breathe…
BOBBY PARKER Bobby Parker was born in 1982 and lives in Kidderminster, England. Publications include his books Ghost Town Music and Comberton, both published by The Knives Forks & Spoons Press. His poetry, artwork and photography have appeared in various reputable magazines in print and on-line. He writes a poetry column for The Quietus. His first full length collection, Blue Movie, is due out on Nine Arches Press in 2014.