graveyard of the unborn
Standing fully-clothed in the doorway, I pause for a moment to take in the scene of the crime.
The evidence speaks from a bedroom floor punctuated by latex commas. Torn off in the heat of passion and flung to the side. Or stripped languidly away, tied in a knot and slingshotted across the room--it would appear our suspect is a cocky bastard.
Is it a gentleman’s duty to clean up all the used condoms and wrappers from a lady’s bedroom floor?
Not necessarily. It’s the same as with any other mess. First you have to tell me where you want me to put it.
Comments
FYI, there are two garbage cans, one in the kitchen and the other in the bathroom.
At least there weren't any stuck to the walls. But ... the weekend isn't over.
Posted by: More Baloney | December 30, 2007 06:43 PM
Yay, Philip rides again! Or, well, he rides and writes about it. FINALLY. ;-)
Posted by: Red | January 4, 2008 10:21 AM
nice to have you back, philip. certainly.
Posted by: j. | January 19, 2008 08:15 PM
hey phil,
don't know if its intentional or not, but the title of this post reminds me of that poem by richard brautigan, "the pill versus the springhill mine disaster":
When you take your pill
it's like a mine disaster.
I think of all the people
lost inside of you.
i wonder if, aside from him being a raging hippy, you and brautigan aren't just a little bit alike? hope you are well. come visit again soon when the weather gets hot.
Posted by: elise | January 21, 2008 04:39 AM