Cockposturing

Listening to Matt calling down after me

in the stairwell.

Matt, whom I came to visit tonight.

Matt, who bawls remarkably fast

for somebody’s who’s permanently numb.

Matt, whose apartment reeks of pot.

Matt, whose front teeth I knocked out

with the base of a lamp

shaped like Elvis.

Matt, whose loud music drowned out the screams.

Listening to Matt calling down after me

in the stairwell,

he’s almost gurgling the words:

You fuck!

You fuck!

You don’t know how to take care of a fucking woman!

You gotta keep that bitch on a leash!

You hear me?

Remember how I told you that I hadn’t seen her in weeks?

Huh?

You remember that shit?

I fucking lied!

She’s come for lines two or three times

and I even gave her a free one

for leaving your psycho ass, you fuck!

And I watch the tiny droplets of blood

being sprayed out of his mouth

rain down the middle of the stairwell

most likely laced with an STD or two.

And he knows that I can hear him

from three of four flights down

from the ceasing of my footsteps.

You fuck!

You don’t know who you’re fucking with here!

Yeah, you fucking hurt me!

But you know what?

I’ll fucking kill you!

I’m Krakatoa, motherfucker!

I’m fucking Vesuvius

all up in here!

You don’t know who you’re fucking with!

You don’t know who you’re fucking with!

I’ll Hiroshima your fucking ass!

Be prepared, motherfucker,

Be prepared.

Listening to Matt’s cockposturing

calling down after me

in the stairwell of his apartment building,

wondering if I should just turn around

and pay him another visit.