Zach Fishel

by Ian on October 15, 2011

Zach Fishel is an associate editor at Girls With Insurance. He drinks to remember everything he forgot.

Cue Cards are for Pin-ups

It starts with a quick touch and go,
my lips to hers.
I bite down like a teething child,
hard enough to make her saliva glands pump
like her hands as she tugs at my pants.
I force myself into her tonsils like a doctor
searching for a strep culture.
Producing nothing I slap her face,
and holding her by the throat I tear into the back of her skull,
mashing flesh together
believing that this pain is good
and the tears coming from her gag reflex are signs
of joy,
The near vomiting gurgles of the sad girl’s
stomach as she attempts to swallow me whole
is the catastrophic sound of dollars being made.
We stop,
catch our breaths in a heaping pleasure of bruised limbs,
and I shred her clothes like lettuce in a Taco Bell.
I take her,
make her salty with the bends of a pretzel in my arms.
She is mold before the potter,
and motherfucker I am her god.
She yells because the cue cards tell her to.
I pull her by the hair and drag her to my level
grinding her face into the floor boards of this cheap hotel room
and love the only way I know how.


Dead Dog

It was a hot morning.
The pavement I was stumbling on barefoot made my toes scrambled eggs.
1 pm is too early to be fishing for used cigarettes,
but sometimes we have to draw a line for ourselves
and jump over it just to keep living.
I was crawling with the ants
as they, like freighters,
carried off a caterpillar on their
rounded shoulders.
The American consumer hard at work,
carrying dinner and eating on the go.
The street was a carnival of people,
dressed up and down in their best and worst.
It was as if everyone was a crumpled paper bag,
playing catch up with each other.
It’s hard to do that in a town made of dust.
The truck screeched as it rounded the corner,
a blazing green blur smashed the thick air.
The children,
they pushed carts and scooters out of the line of fire,
the dog was late,
stuck sniffing those ants in the road.
The truck hit him,
everyone stopped breathing.
The silence of town was as if we were commencing the only preacher’s funeral.
The truck roared on
the dog stood,
and kept walking.
He made it three steps.
I ducked under the car,
scared to rub elbows with the neighboring crack-heads.
I heard them curse the truck,
the kids began to wail,
the dog let out a shriek that sounded like peeling tires
echoing the last sound on the street.
The dog was carried to a porch,
blood and spit foaming out like a crushed zit.

Love After Bad Sex

There is only so far a word can take you.

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