February 3, 2011

Mathias Nelson

DIP MY PACIFIER IN WHISKEY

I’m sober as the day I was born, and as terrified too.
Sometimes I think maybe I just need a spank
to let it all out. Preferably from a beautiful nurse
who doesn’t care if I’m a young man with bald spots.
Even my dog looks at me with disgust.
I’m afraid to go outside and pick up his turds.
What if the neighbor asks me how I’m doing, or if I’ve found a job?
Oh God, you can’t tell people you don’t want to work. Why,
why do we have to ruin our knees and our backs,
deprive ourselves of sleep until we snap?
Oh God, it’s freezing outside.
Steam comes out of my dog’s butt.
He won’t look at me anymore and
I think he has Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.
He has to sniff every turd before he comes in.
By the time he’s done he’s completely exhausted.
There’s four-hundred eighty-two turds. I counted.
When will his tail wag? If I had a tail
it’d be wrapped around my little balls to keep them warm.
Last time I left the house I fed bread to the deer. Then the DNR called,
someone had complained, ratted me out for being nice.
I told the DNR I was feeding da birds, and he called me a liar,
threatened to take my money. Oh God, why do we need it?
Money. Without it they won’t let me live on this land.
I don’t want to live on this land, but where to?
I guess the Mississippi islands are my last chance,
but I’m afraid of the DNR. I just need a woman,
but women terrify me! How can something make babies?
What kind of voodoo magic is this? Oh God, old people wear diapers too.
Is that why we call it mother Earth, because we will be swallowed
by the Earth’s pussy all over again? Oh Jesus, I hope I didn’t offend
anyone by saying pussy … cunt, no! Vagina!
I don’t want anyone to come after me, really, I’d like to live
in the middle of a mountain with a long, thin airway cut to the top.
That way a little light would get in, and rain too.
I don’t need food. I swear I could live off my nails.
I think they’re after me though, the people who saw me feeding the deer.
It’s probably the park owners. Every winter they let the blind and disabled
hunt in the park. The deer come right up to the cars and BAM.
I’ve eaten all my toenails. Probably won’t have food
for another week now. If only I had a cow,
the calcium would help. I’d suck it right out the udders,
pretend they’re a mother’s nipples. Not my mother’s—
that’s disgusting! I’m such a baby, hear my cries …
let me rest my head on your chest. Maybe all I need
is mounds of fat to cover my eyes and ears.
But what if I forget to take off my glasses
and they break. And what if the breasts
are made of silicone, and my broken glasses
pop them open. I won’t be able to see.
Will there be a sudden breast wind?
Will I drown in some strange liquid?
What if I think it’s milk and drink it?
Will it kill me? Killed by a mother’s breasts?
See, nothing is safe. I’m terrified,
sober as the day I was born.
Please, spank me so I can breathe again
I assure you it is not a fetish.
Please, dip my pacifier in whiskey
I assure you I am not an alcoholic.
Please, bring your vagina over here
I assure you I am ready to leave.

from Rattle #33, Summer 2010
Tribute to Humor

[download audio]

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Mathias Nelson: “I write because I’m sensitive, but also because I’ve got balls—three anatomy wise, though one is just a collection of spermatic fluid called a Spermatocele, which is another reason I write, because I’m backed up.” (website)