Sex Dream ~ poetry by Syreeta Muir

There is clear jelly agar
oozing from me after
the sex,
which I try to mop up with socks from my backpack
A guy in his late 60s (early 70s?) and his wife
The super-old hot guy
comes in on his way to the
says to me:
My wife asked me to tell you
you need to tidy up
He points to his groin which is red and inflamed with a burgeoning rash
I lift up my t-shirt
to prove him wrong –
I shave everything off,
regularly –
but he’s right
it’s all stubbly

His wife is nowhere to be found.

Suffering, suffering, cheesestrings, suffering

I said I was sorry again
I said that
I’m sorry I wound you up

It doesn’t help

Doesn’t lessen
the throb in the air

I’m basking in your radiance,

a fucking singularity
of sorry

flensing a cheesestring

hilariously intense,
sharps-bin yellow

In hindsight I see the irony

While day-sleeping I had a long dream in which you were multiplicitous

All of the people you are
were living in a tower-dorm DM’ing me from their room.
I was frustrated with the brevity,
wanted to cut out the middlemen,
so I set off to look for the real you.

Spiralling down,
my cat kept stopping
to piss in all the stairwells –
didn’t she understand
I was looking for the Horned God?
Came across the canteen,
tables set with fine cutlery,
though you assure me it’s the community centre.
I shrug and help you clear up some of the mess, wash the glasses – even though you ignored my suggestion to use the dishwasher –
and worry about the stern-faced maitre d’ who inspects the salt and pepper shakers.
Still, it wasn’t hard
I washed, you dried.

As I continue my descent
I pass an open door
A bedroom
female you is getting ready to go out, checking her phone,
looking up, she smiles temptingly, longs at me.
It’s a gossip look,
so I smile back, but do not meet her eye.
This seems to pacify her.
I move on,
so close now
I see it on the floor below
THE door.
But I knock on the wrong one first and wake up the baby of the 3 you-dude neighbours;
the guy that answers has hollow, red-rimmed eyes,
“I just got her down” you say,
and I can’t just abandon you that way
so, I ask if you’d like my help?
You nod and leave.
I go in and settle her.
She’s really small and fractious as a heart.
When it’s done I slip out into the corridor,
peer through the actual door, just as two drunk Dísir are leaving to get more beer.
You’re sitting on a frat party throne like Cernunnos,
air thick with bong-smoke and gamer-osterone,
peering round the room of your domain, side-eyed,
head tilted

I call through the gap:
Can I come in?

then wake up

Syreeta Muir is creating things from the discomfort of her own skin. Find them in Horror Tree, Daily Drunk Mag, Barren Magazine and others. Find her on Twitter as @hungryghostpoet.

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