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Through the smell of gun oil,
I inhale the dreamy fragrance of her skin,
I stroke her girly neck with the muzzle,
And then I say,
“Am I stupid to loose it all, our love, you?
To let this gun butcher you between your collarbones,
And then shoot myself?
I am not so sure we are going to be any better off
than the gory aftermath.”

The cold gun strokes her breasts.
The chilled nipples fit into the .40 caliber muzzle.
She offers no reproach. I do as I please.
She is cold, yet does not complain.

The only thing I lack is watching her dance,
As she is sitting on my lap, all nude,
clinging to me, succumbed to my will.
Half a minute ago we would have been dead.

I find the remote control.
The tape of the World championships.
Like a grimy taxi driver
in a skid row motel,
as if having a naked whore on my lap,
I watch the videos of her,
“I am into you,” I salivate,
“As you figure skate.”

The smug French judge
gave her point-nine,
I hold no grudge.
I know his wife,
the vice-chairman-deputy-president
To sub committees, art clubs and galleries
And something called Grotto Esco–
And she sneaks around,
With the chief for coordination of something anti-American,
The Frenchman has nothing else to do
But judge my Principessa,
while the anti-American lovebirds cavort in Gstaad.

I command her to put on a G-string.
There is nothing like a Chinese takeout after an attempted suicide.
She looks at me with those I-want-to-get-under-the-desk eyes,
But I keep her on my lap.

I admire my office, which I made into a temple to SALT.
It is a stultifying acronym.
Sweet. Adorable. Luscious. Tewtie.
But what a word,
what a luscious, delectable, impossible, cute SALT.


I spoke to the headquarters,
And they let me bring Tewtie in,
As a secretary.
My sexetary.

She is home in my office, her temple.
She knows that everything there
is to glorify, extol, praise, exalt, admire and worship her.

Her favorite pictures of us.
A painting of her by a scrawny sidewalk artist from New Orleans;
a charcoal sketch by a black beret scarfing the gros pain bread,
swigging wine and
bewailing the Moslemized fate of his garlic-and-snail Paris;
An artistic black-and-white nude
I had done by dragging her to a suburban glamour studio.
Joanna thought the photo was a thank-you from our hotel-chain client.

Sometimes I fantasize about us,
Joanna, Tewtie and me.
I am enjoying Tewtie on our altar of lust,
with Joanna assisting,
a sex nurse,
massaging, directing, aiming, caressing.

Thoughts return to the desk.
A tiny earring box I got her in Sorrento, and,
inlaid into the lid, the cameo of her.
Polaroids of us in Cranbrook Park,
in bed, in the Jacuzzi.

My clients never get to see the holy of the holies.
I receive them in the conference room.
While Joanna flashes them thighs,
as Tewtie, in a delightfully short tank dress,
sets up my files for the next meeting,
while preparing our coffee-and-fingerfood brunch.


We are handling our sickness.
We try not to give into the lechery.
She just loves staying in, being my adored property.
She does not let go of me even for a minute.
She is a cat content to lick treats off my finger,
sitting by my side the rest of the evening,
swaying to the songs of Humperdinck, velvety with love,
dancing with me to the waltz by Shostakovich,
watching our Golden Key videos,
reading her name encoded into the flowers at Bonfante Gardens.

Only death can cure this superhuman obsession.
Feels great to be alive.
We feel born-again.

“I want to sanctify you for our new life.”
on Internet, we check out love and renewal of commitment.
We found a Tantra Temple.
But it was a mass of misshapen bodies
Adoring a drooling Santa Clause from India.
Tewtie was spooked, but liked their chapatti.

Back to our temple.
Nothing matches the coziness
Of the late nights at the office.
Back to the reports. The best for the last.
On Internet, we find more love rituals.
This one sounds sane and therapeutic.

We borrow the idea from Judaism.
We read some on their rituals.
We find a kosher caterer.
We abstain form each other,
Two weeks and then some of sweet torture and anticipation.
The night is upon us,
Completely on her own.
No longer touched by me,
She bathes, she scrubs her body,
She trims her fairytale fingernails.
I escort her to a natural body of water,
Late at night she immerses, she emerges,
I catch her into a thick towel, a beach blanket
from our Sorrento vacation.
Police cars? A cottage? Who cares.
I drive her home, to a candle-lit dinner of kosher delights.

She has been sanctified, consecrated, purified wholly unto me.
We start a new life.
A life of a spiritual obsession, both sane and unearthly.

Related Items


The following comments are for "After The Suicide"
by Teflon

Submitted as Flash Fiction
The structure in no way make it Poetry. The flow is more like a narrative to the aftermath.

( Posted by: Teflon [Member] On: September 23, 2004 )

You need to start a video collection!! LOL!!

I would like to see this written perhaps more as a story as you put forward in your comment above. Perhaps running chapters on it??

It's very interesting.


( Posted by: londongrey [Member] On: September 23, 2004 )

Oh, good.
And here was me thinking they were dead. Was it suicide, or only spiritual suicide? This ending seems a little more upbeat. You've still managed to capture that 'dark love' feeling I got from the first one, but I think this one is overlong. I don't really have the patience, especially at this time of night, to read through all this. I would have appreciated a prose structure, but I can't have it all.
Just as good as the last one, but I think I preferred not knowing what happened.

( Posted by: MacLaren [Member] On: September 23, 2004 )

Long and smooF
Well, I suspect this boredom effect is very common. Whatever doesn't fit the browser window, taxes one's attention. VodkanIdo?

But in their comments to Our Suicide, Fairplay and Brickhouse sensed this ending, that's why I told them they were prophets.

( Posted by: Teflon [Member] On: September 23, 2004 )

Imagry/style not clear
I did not read the for-runner spoken of, but the title kept me reading: not because I liked it but because I wanted to see how you treated the subject ‘poetically’.

To me, this isn't a viable poetic prose because it's missing natural rhythm: There isn’t a natural ebb and flow. There isn’t a distinct form.

For me, there isn’t enough ‘visceral’ imagery at the end to pull off the empty words at the beginning.

Granted the title tells us something, but the content should do more than let us see things… it should make us feel something: be that, sadness, terror, pathos, lust, love… or even revulsion… something to let us identify with it or decide not to identify with it.

I came away thinking I had not so much listened to a visage of suicide as of a psychopathic homicide.

She seems to have died, not of herself, but of the tortured dark nature of someone else, who set the stage and then set her up: you (as the writer) held the gun, and it’s your thoughts about your dark nature that is revealed, for you are the one telling it… without emotion.

As a creative effort, I give it a "5."

( Posted by: MaxiiJ [Member] On: September 24, 2004 )

I think the extemporaneous way you wrote this gives the reader a feeling of voyeurism. I felt like I was peeking into a window, trying to figure out the dynamics of this complicated relationship. (a window to your mind) It was very alluring to read. And I would like to reread it several times because I think one shot isn't giving justice to all the hidden meaning and allusion. Like Alex I would love to see you turn this into a short story. The characters are intriguing.

( Posted by: jade [Member] On: September 24, 2004 )

Dark nature - thanks to MaxiiJ and Jade
MaxiiJ is right about dark nature.
Try reading this again after "Our suicide." Tell me if it jives in any way, or it still better off being a homogenous short story.

( Posted by: Teflon [Member] On: September 25, 2004 )

"After the Suicide"
The emphasis on life and love is the perfect counterpoint to the act of suicide.

You succeed in drawing me into the piece. As a short-short it is very good. I wonder if I can match the quality of this work.

( Posted by: Dfortyseven [Member] On: April 25, 2005 )

D47: nebulae!
Does it stand alone, though being a finale to Our Suicide? As an abstraction, it does. What I might not have declared is the value of obsession as the ultimate measure, religion, spirituality of life.
Most of these flash stories are about that obsession. They may be totally different nebulae to a random reader, whom I thank for reading them.


( Posted by: Teflon [Member] On: April 27, 2005 )

well of a mystery...nicely done...must say, read
several times and still contemplating you and your characters...probably will sleep on this
one...good one, mystery man...


( Posted by: Robinbird [Member] On: April 28, 2005 )

resolution for Robinbird
Standing alone, without a precedent, After the Suicide is an impressionistic, mysterious, nebulous issue between the narrator and his Tewtie. The precedent is, which keeps things, and characters, somewhat down to earth.

( Posted by: Teflon [Member] On: April 28, 2005 )

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