Never drink more than one cup of coffee

poem for my last poetry slam

Never drink more than one

cup of coffee.

That‘s one of my rules.

It all began 

with the woman

who picked the coffee berries

for the third coffee I drank

on one of those rainy mornings

with the sleep cropped out

as if it came off all twisted

and the blanket had slipped

on the side just enough

so my left toe freezes.

The story began with the third

cup of indulgence,

(it always does.)

The first, the second,

never matters,

but the third!

After the third

one-night stand

with the same man,

you ask for the name...

So, on that rainy morning

My tongue senses not

velvet passion

on the third cup of coffee,

but instead

it feels the hands 

of the one who picks

the coffee berries...

Hasty, rough, working hands

skipping the rhythm

and in the pauses

between my coffee

and making a living,

these two hands,

hasty and rough,

stretch and grab my tongue

and pull!

Pull till my eyes pop

and my skull

is chiseled out

by hurried 

Messerschmidt.

The hands belong to a woman,

who grabs the sleazy warm tongue

and pull

steady, not harsh

till I almost feel ashamed

that my tongue should have been

longer

to match her prolonged

need.

And her hands pull

to bring closer to her

the man I slept with, 

to stroke him, no,

to ravage him

and throw on the bed

with no sheet

in a scorching day

where her lips drink

sweat of dark skin

and summer fills the lung

not smoke in between drinks

and hollow words

decoded in my not knowing 

how to love him.

She would pull that man

and eat of his blood

to punish me

for feeding him 

lust.

A vitruvian woman

spreads her legs,

not her beliefs,

she would say

and eat some more blood.

I look in disgust

for telling him tempting

untruth

and serving him cold food.

First, of course,

I think she pulls

because she wants to have

that man.

We, women, if we are starved

would argue even over

dead corpses,

so, I take it, 

she pulls to get

left-overs of love.

I am wrong.

She pulls, 

she pulls steady,

with those hasty, rough hands, 

she pulls strong

and doesn‘t let go.

She pulls as if

she wants to get out

my dirty, sordid,

despicable soul

that is still sleepy 

after the third cup

of coffee

and she pulls for more

that just a man.

She pulls

till the world

is covered in saliva

and blood.

She pulls. 

She pulls for the trauma

of my invalid mouth

that keeps shut

instead of shouting out

and slicing untruth open.

She pulls for mutilated animals,

for raped children,

forgotten mothers,

for the alienated,

for the voiceless,

for the scared

and the ones covered

in dry blood,

She pulls

in-between histories

of chained and skinned

individuals named after numbers,

and the monsters

lacking enough creativity

to translate themselves

into fairy-tales

and instead

unpoetically burn

human flesh in cacophonic

fire of guns

and she pulls for the profane

massacres

and swollen black bellies,

and she pulls for

the dirt in the slums,

She pulls for that prostitute,

and she pulls for that child,

she pulls for them being the same.

She pulls for the arousal

we get from decapitation

and she pulls 

for those being shunned

from life...

SHE PULLS.

She pulls

and I wish that my bleeding

tongue was the reason

for my silence

and my being numb.

 

She pulls.

  For what?

That unborn

In a rotten womb,

Her son drunk

And drugged

With patience

To endure

Different ends:

His, and his mother’s

And this of the world,

 With shrugged shoulders

And a shut conscience?

This world

is but a mere

warm,

slimy

blood

that

never

clots

in her hands.

 

So,

She pulls

That unborn as if

It is a cancerous lump

That bleeds

Only in hot weather.

The splashes of blood

draw a flower on

Her linen

Shirt

and

She sweats

And cries

And pulls harder.

For her world.

I close eyes

And keep my mouth shut,

tongueless 

That’s the barter.

My silence balances out

Her shouting

And her sweat fills my cup,

(she tastes bitter.)

I carry in my womb

death,

not life.

 

 

But 

 Her groaning and panting

     are not from hard work

She waits

with one coffee-shaped

eye stuck

to the edge of my tongue

and ready to stretch

hands and pull.

 

 

But I have that rule:

three cups is more than I need

to survive.

 

With three cups

of coffee

I can‘t sleep

and she comes out,

that woman

picking coffee berries

to stretch my tongue

and take out my soul.

 

She would want more

than just the man I slept with.

She wants the name

of my guilt.

Silence counts after three.

 

Three cups of coffee

is more than I need.

Drink one, guard that tired

luxury not to think.

And then, then hope

that water washes away

everything.

Coffee and shame.

 

I put the cup in the sink

and go to work unaware,

half-asleep and safe

of sharing a wound

with her.

 

 

 

 

 

© 2013 Marri

 

 

Reviews

[Ken Simm.]

How we will be haunted by these words whether you drink coffee or not. A flow of consistency that takes a river of thought and makes what would seem to be common place, high art. There are lines such as Vitruvian woman that hit with hammers into the pysche.

[Marri]

Thank you, Ken, as always humbling and beautiful!

[Circe]

oh i can't imagine what a treat it would be to hear you read this at a poetry slam (not that i've ever been to one) but it would be a dream to see you perform at one! after reading the first stanza.. i couldn't stop smiling! feeling dumbstruck and awestruck the rest of the way.. you just make something so simple as drinking coffee into a piece of artwork to be unlocked and grown into fruitful worlds in every direction... those hasty rough working hands....ohboy i just want to touch those hands and feel every rough groove and bump. the man thrown onto the bed with no sheet... that's the kind of dark, passionate imagery i adore from you. and the rest is mind blowing... absolutely,i'm speechless... the woman and you & what is revealed by this force between you two.. she is the voice in you that dares to name truths and feel all the pain of this world... this is spectacular bleeding of your soul... and all within a morning ritual...... just shows how your mind is insanely powerful!

[Marri]

Circe, I am humbled. The poetic ink that runs through your veins reaches the most guarded and intimate layers of my soul, which I keep for the words that my mother would say, or my little sister, or the man I love. There are things that touch us, outside of us, and cause goose bumps. There are people, however, who touch us from within and cause emotional storms! Every word you say is guarded there, and I must say I thank you!

[Marri]

and you should definitely see a poetry slam live, it's a drug.

[Marri]

I still look for words how to express the warmth that spills in me when i read your review, you make it all worth it

[Circe]

that is more than i could have hoped for... please do because i mean every word.

yes, i love the video of the poetry piece you sent me, her voice is so expressive and projected to such an impact, and i love the empowering message of the poem.. it fills in the places with strength that we didn't know needed reinforcing... but sometimes you don't know how much you're missing something until you actually have it!

[Marri]

I actually sent you the video because I think you are one of the women who emanate that beauty that is layered with substance, the true beauty that is outside shines only when the depth of your soul plays in synchrony...so, i sent it to say, you are more than just merely pretty and I guess that's why people fall in love with you and your writing. Because you shine from the outside, and you shine from within. There is another poetry slammer I like: Rives, if you type in youtube and watch his poems Kite, Dirty Talk, Hobo, etc, you get a good start for the day :) I wish you an inspiring one as well!

[Circe]

wow, that's fantastic, i will search for them now! and thank you! i feel the same way about you :)

[Frieda P]

Whoa, I've had three cuppas already and this is wild, over the top good. I don't know how you got from coffee to shame but I took that ride with you and it worked. Fascinating read! I dare not have another cup of café!

[Marri]

Thank you, Frieda, I had exams last three weeks, so I had more than three cups of coffee, and as what I study is connected with racism and ethics, I was surrounded by stories which make you more awake...than coffee does...But exams are over now, so I will have the honour to read some of your work during a relaxing evening....

[Frieda P]

Very interesting read to say the least, I get how you might have gotten there from what you speak...fascinating!