"Laundromatrimony"

 

Benjamin C.utie Dugdale

Benjamin C.utie Dugdale is a poet & experimental filmmaker currently living in Atlantic Canada and earning their MA in creative writing (in addition to sometimes reading for PANK magazine (currently taking a selfie in a bathroom mirror (trapped inside three-deep nested parentheses))). Benjamin’s work can be found in places like GEIST, Freefall, The Antigonish Review, QWERTY, The Maynard, CRITpaper, & elsewhere—sometimes under the name bonny cd and at other times under variations on #hot(s/b/d/de/gl)adjesus. Their new chapbook, Saint Rat O’Sphere’s Formica Canticle Poems, is forthcoming from Anstruther Press.

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"'Laundromatrimony' is a response to William Kurelek's painting Glimmering Tapers 'round the Day's Dead Sanctities if, instead of a prairie Catholic vision of the aurora borealis as some sign from God, all the aqua smear was an abyssal armpit rash."

You wanted to elope. I began to bundle my clothes inside the puritan-white balaclava that I'd been sweating yellow as a smoker-manicure just moments before. You wanted to elope. We could leave the whole damn county behind, but I had to trust you, and only you. You said comeon, get a move on. I don't wanna do this with just anyone.

 

And then my clothes eloped, drooped thru and down. Last out the balaclava's large single lip: My shabby-chic retro wedding gown.

 

By the time I got it all tucked again you married another man, some urban, boutique-owning jerk, who writes very naive very Canadian poems about ornithology just like the rest of the boring birdgeoisie. Everything you said was special about me thrown out the window like a still-cherry dart into the unseasonably dry slough, like a fart in the wind.

 

I’m out now at the rink, ice-skating with the b’ys, doing a few too many twirly things for their taste. A poem, a noise, ferda boys! Boy noise annoys public poise. Doris dirging, the curling rink canteen is sold out of mozza sticks for the season. I just get a cola and read McLuhan in the corner of the booth, the end of the table, so my left-handed elbow-play doesn’t unwittingly come off as flirtatious to the b’ys.

 

I just read about how in early cinema there’s sometimes emulsion fragments from the film that build up and mimic an errant whisker caught in front of the shutter. Now my rink-stink balaclava has a loose thread stage-right, and it extends across my line of sight like a fist completely let go into a palm-star.

 

That boy noise. Geeze, b’ys. Y’know, it's not a thrall, but it cuts time like you and I would cut class to play cum-toast (FKA limp-biscuit, where whoever cums onto whole-wheat last eats the gross, but it’s not gay, it’s the followthru momentum of ritual; yr just not allowed to like it, lick it off yr lip). It’s not a knife either, nor a comb throned at crown of hair, o’er there, where we could soothe the depression mattes toothline-smooth. Not the dream-team cream-cosmos about to bukakke across my barren prairie memory; fold relatively; Ford industrially; be gay with glee or electro shock therapy. Many large lips make for many proto-manly noisies, occasional drunken cummies (throw yr sadboi a cummie, ferda b’ys).

 

Focus b’y: yr name is spelt with E's, not Y's. Not wise to perm-press this bless this mess front-door decal. 

 

Despite the season’s lingersleet sleepiness, its stay in bed a minute longer, it couldn’t be as nice out as it looks out yr window, I rummage thru the junk drawer for the Picquic, nab a plate from the water truck and put it on the International and haul into town to meet up with the b’ys. Here we are in high-Calgary’s tax-shelter, Chesterqueer, hawking loogies and running ‘round without looking at our feet, posers in skateboard footwear playing hookie to meet up for street-hockey, coroners come in advance just itching to announce the death of this cul-de-sac’s spring quietude. I break my borrowed hockey stick by accident, leaning too hard on it, like it were a crutch. A GoogleMaps car nyooms by just as the stick gives.

 

To no one's surprise, in one month’s time we find ourselves in a glossy blue-green tourist pamphlet, advertising the hamlet as Arcadian respite, where all the local children are Gaussian Vaseline smears, glimmering tapers round the day’s dead sanctities, on particleboard, in oil. We’re so annotated and gauzy and polished that you might not see how we’re boy-broiling in our summer hockey jerseys—our armpits puckering, badgerholed subtweet-deep in yr mentions with crystalline aqua yeast infections.

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