Tonight's Poet Corner: Red Bile
Red Bile by Belinda Roddie When you blow your nose into the rug, wipe away the dark residue of sorrow on your clean-trimmed denim. Your husband heaves and masturbates to an old 80s porno while the decaying flesh makes your hair glow with decaying white TV screen light. The art of love does not come with a brush, nor does the temptation of sex come with a paperback manual with smiley face pictures and happy black text. We are going to see the king tonight, dear, hovering in a constellation above the estranged's head, and my tiny face in your corduroy pants pocket reminds you that there is more to puddles of lactated sad sweat and shitty futures and sepia pasts, and your nostrils gleaming crimson from the times you vomited into a porcelain bowl, hoping if you took the pills, he'd love you again.