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Image for the poem < the roach and the tampon, long version >

< 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"      
      
- - -      
      
[/font]
rayheinrich
Written by rayheinrich (Death Plane for Teddy)
Published | Edited 12th Jun 2012
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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