deepundergroundpoetry.com
< the roach and the tampon, long version >
ever since i wrote this poem:
< the roach and the tampon >
you don't EVER
want to hear this story
- - -
people, of course, have asked to hear the story:
< the roach and the tampon, long version >
ok...
picture two young hippies
(or the best approximation we could come up with having grown up
in small texas towns where our only information about hippies
came from time magazine)
me, with long flowing hair
and her, in a dress she'd made from an indian bedspread
we were living in a house that should have been condemned,
with five other odd souls in the early 70's
the house was located in the, then, run-down (now yuppie haven) area of the heights
in the (ever repressive) city of houston, texas located on the gulf coast of fungus
"the heights" - we loved that name, since, in our texas-hippie minds,
it reminded us of "haight-ashbury", our mecca (yeah, we miss-pronounced it)
we rented the house from a benevolent slum lord for $50 a month
with the promise to make repairs to it
(this ended up consisting of cutting a large hole in the roof so we could sit outside
(the roof wasn't sloped much) and watch the stars and city, usually under the effects of some drug;
and digging another large hole (6 by 15 feet) in the driveway for our organic garden which
we never got around to)
we all had separate bedrooms (it was a large victorian house)
my room developed a significant leak
(probably the result of the hole we'd made in the roof)
and i asked if i couldn't sleep in her room until i repaired it (i never repaired it)
one night (as i was making yogurt in the kitchen)
i heard screaming (it was my girlfriend)
and this was very alarming coming from a woman who routinely drove hard bargains with the bandidos
(tough even back then when they were just a small texas motorcycle club)
i raced upstairs
and found her standing in front of the commode
blood, streaming down her legs
fingers, way up in her vagina
frantic
trying to get something out
"it's inside me!" she yelled
(maybe this was one of those acid flashbacks (i thought)
like the anti-drug people kept warning us about and
that we kept hoping for (in vain),
or... maybe some acid-induced greek play)
"help me, god damn it!"
i tried
(one of the few times i'd ever had my fingers inside a vagina
with no sexual intent whatsoever (except for another girlfriend
of mine who kept thinking she had warts there and i had to feel
for them, then assure her there weren't any
(she didn't handle drugs very well))
then it came to me:
turkey baster!
i ran to the kitchen and grabbed it...
water and blood,
all over the bathroom floor,
but finally,
i flushed it out
a roach! (and still alive!)
it hit the floor, scrambling, trying to escape
and my girlfriend (true to her vegetarian beliefs)
scooped it up in her hand and released it outside
a while after this
we parted
me, to the army
and her, to join a commune in bolivia
(at the time, bolivia had no extradition treaty with the u.s.)
...
seven years later
we met again
the result of a series of incidents involving:
the bandidos,
a lesbian transsexual
(who had invented one of the first electronically steerable radio antennas),
a large quantity of brown crystal mescaline
(she only dealt the "holy" drugs: mescaline, acid, and psilocybin, never the "death culture" ones
(and this, only to pay for college (she said))),
the hood ornament from ken kesey's bus, "furthur" (not "further" as it is sometimes misspelled),
and a narcotics agent that let her off (in exchange for the mescaline)
we could never figure out
how the roach got in there (tampon?)
but as she said:
"it all makes sense now,
after all,
it was a 'cock' roach"
- - -
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