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IN THE ELEVATOR, BITE ME, AND UGLY

by

Christine Hamm



IN THE ELEVATOR

Going up to your apartment
you jam your hand down the front of my pants
And I'm not wearing underwear.
This is sudden and makes me wet
but I think you
close your eyes not to see me
but to see yourself.
You're living
in your own private
porno flick.
I'm not starring.
I'm just an extra.
I'm just along for the ride.



BITE ME

The South African junkie
bites my breasts
with his broken teeth.
He refuses to believe the bruises
are from him.
I love him in exact proportion
to his disdain.
His rotting breath
flat ass
and constant farts
remind me of a dream
in which I ride a black donkey
in the mountains of a desert
and hit it with a switch.
With his arms around me
I can hear flies
as if we are already dead.



UGLY

Ugly follows me home from the subway.
He trails cockroaches and lies
smells of rotten eggs and magnolia.
Ugly touches me everywhere.
He gives me dreams of ants,
helmets and octupi.
I wake up sneezing and in love.
Ugly brings home the flu
instead of flowers.
When we kiss his snot
mixes with mine and
he wipes it on my face, gently.
Ugly leaves pieces of himself everywhere.
His teeth break into bits of coal
when we kiss.
Ugly starts staying out all night.
I cry and scream at him.
It gets Ugly.
He stops coming home at all.
I break all the mirrors and
start vomiting
every morning.
Then I realize,
I have become ugly.







ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Christine Hamm has lived in New York City for the past 11 years. She received a MA in Creative Writing 12 years ago, and has had work published in New York Metropolis, Poetry Midwest, Diagram, Babes in Toyland Salon, Cleansheets, and Kansas Little Literary Review, among others. Her webpage can be found at www.geocities.com/thefatladysinging.




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