Gut Lubber
By Dave Migman
Pack dogs barking, sounding out their prey without the sonic finesse of bats. I’m hoping that they’ll snatch one of these cats (I don’t think it out too loud).
She huddles in bed, melding with the sheets. “I can hear you eating in there! What the hell are you eating?” and she extends an eyestalk, creeping from the bedroom, staring over the TV. A mouth stalk appears above the glaring bead. “I knew it. Why are you eating again? You’re getting fat man! Look at that gut!”
I look down at my curdled entrails packed in pink rubber. Better not think too loud about the stinking cats… They are vermin. When she gets together with her cronies they sit there painting rows of gleaming nails like wide teeth pressed into plasticine.
Cats are the subjects of endless conversations.
Cats are surrogate children for sterile anemone queens.
Cats are evil, little, dirty things.
I set traps for them. Poison in their food, exposed wires tucked into their plates of steak. There are plenty of felines among the ruins. There are outside vermin and inside vermin. She keeps five of the latter, here. They laze around her. She is their gelatinous mound. Occasionally they come to harass me for affection. I blow quietly into their faces. They shy away. Their green eyes filled with loathing.
“I hope you’re not bullying my babies!” she hollers.
What is it that scares me? Why do I shiver inside when I hear her voice? The way she commands and dominates… The latent threat concealed within each syllable? I fear her. As though, at any moment, she might reveal her true form, flesh falling away to unmask a ball of snapping teeth like rabid dogs.
“Where’s my little licker?” she calls now, softly like the morning breeze. “Where’s licker?” now she’s getting mad. I hop to. I was dozing. Don’t be mad. I prostrate myself at the foot of the bed. She places one rubbery hand on the back of my bald head, suction cups adhere with a quiet squelch. She then bends my head forward so that I might worship that rotten shrine. When I begin to struggle she lets me up for air.
“Faster, harder. Oh baby. Oh my sweet baby.” Through gritted teeth “Harder, faster.”
The cats stare upon the scene, impassive and uncomprehending. Or maybe they know! Maybe we are their pawns and this is their game.
Afterwards she lies on her back, eyestalks tucked in, tendrils withdrawn. Slimed in an oil of sweat she lies naked. She begins to snore. The chandeliers jingle. I stop my ears and roll onto my side.
- - -
Bio - After many days in a semi-gaseous state Dave Migman is beginning to solidify. He continues to write nonetheless, communicating his thoughts on windows with condensation.
By Dave Migman
Pack dogs barking, sounding out their prey without the sonic finesse of bats. I’m hoping that they’ll snatch one of these cats (I don’t think it out too loud).
She huddles in bed, melding with the sheets. “I can hear you eating in there! What the hell are you eating?” and she extends an eyestalk, creeping from the bedroom, staring over the TV. A mouth stalk appears above the glaring bead. “I knew it. Why are you eating again? You’re getting fat man! Look at that gut!”
I look down at my curdled entrails packed in pink rubber. Better not think too loud about the stinking cats… They are vermin. When she gets together with her cronies they sit there painting rows of gleaming nails like wide teeth pressed into plasticine.
Cats are the subjects of endless conversations.
Cats are surrogate children for sterile anemone queens.
Cats are evil, little, dirty things.
I set traps for them. Poison in their food, exposed wires tucked into their plates of steak. There are plenty of felines among the ruins. There are outside vermin and inside vermin. She keeps five of the latter, here. They laze around her. She is their gelatinous mound. Occasionally they come to harass me for affection. I blow quietly into their faces. They shy away. Their green eyes filled with loathing.
“I hope you’re not bullying my babies!” she hollers.
What is it that scares me? Why do I shiver inside when I hear her voice? The way she commands and dominates… The latent threat concealed within each syllable? I fear her. As though, at any moment, she might reveal her true form, flesh falling away to unmask a ball of snapping teeth like rabid dogs.
“Where’s my little licker?” she calls now, softly like the morning breeze. “Where’s licker?” now she’s getting mad. I hop to. I was dozing. Don’t be mad. I prostrate myself at the foot of the bed. She places one rubbery hand on the back of my bald head, suction cups adhere with a quiet squelch. She then bends my head forward so that I might worship that rotten shrine. When I begin to struggle she lets me up for air.
“Faster, harder. Oh baby. Oh my sweet baby.” Through gritted teeth “Harder, faster.”
The cats stare upon the scene, impassive and uncomprehending. Or maybe they know! Maybe we are their pawns and this is their game.
Afterwards she lies on her back, eyestalks tucked in, tendrils withdrawn. Slimed in an oil of sweat she lies naked. She begins to snore. The chandeliers jingle. I stop my ears and roll onto my side.
- - -
Bio - After many days in a semi-gaseous state Dave Migman is beginning to solidify. He continues to write nonetheless, communicating his thoughts on windows with condensation.
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