I’ve had a couple of weeks off from Yoon Yong’s weekend in Jeju, talking idleness & reviewing & what not. There are still quite a number of poems remaining from this set. Here we have Yoon Yong doing some reviewing herself.
Marriage is crap
…The deep blue sky of wintry Seoul
(that could be a poem’s 1st tetrameter)
meeting an American client at Incheon Airport
she was being paid to chaperone
to business deals | restaurants & landmarks.
Warm coats & lip balm | her over-moisturized forehead
catching the low sun-shine. On those days
I felt like Audrey Hepburn in my red trench coat.
She was advanced upon by many men in her work |
many tried-it-on with the authority
unique to the white & rich who | expect to meet
the least resistance from a naïve Asian girl | “6 stone wet-through”
who they could wine & dine into their hotel sack
& hack notches in the bed posts with their impeccable form.
Immature & flattered she succumbed
once | to the American client full of gutturals & drone.
Afterwards she felt numb & silly
but the sex was good.
He was different | difficult to like & charmless |
“Not handsome | you know”— if I didn’t get on
with marriage | it would be easy to leave
someone I didn’t like that much from day one.
I’m not your pet… your animal to parade
on Facebook & Instagram to show your mates how well you did!
“Then why behave like one | why rant & rave |
with your silly poetic posturing like a tortured | misunderstood teen
& your crybaby plea for attention?”
One plus of a deteriorating marriage
is that I don’t have to suck his dick anymore.
Then again | liked the control
: he’d do anything for me after I made
him tremble in his skin. The closer to climax
the more limber & the tighter my grasp on my Judy-marionette
—I'm Punch. I was good at it—I felt a one-up-man-ship
: I provided something for him
he was incapable of providing me |
no matter the appendage size—no talent
& passionless | dull by nature |
he’d have to be another man.
He was on the cusp of a nervous breakdown
in the 1st months after we moved to Korea.
Not her type | a little tubby | not
the chiseled jaw line like a box of cooking matches
the American wagged on his face.
I thought I’d change with marriage but
instead I grew resentful | bitter & aloof
but oddly | prouder & more determined in my femininity
—“kids solve that” I figured as much | but…no.
I’d forgotten why I chose him after years of apathy & work.
There is love & affection of sorts (“that is bollocks!”)
I don’t give credit where credit is due: I wife in doubt
“who wears the trousers in this relationship eh?”
& scorn—he loves his daughter | I think… he…
tried to care for me but I repelled his kindness
fearing it weakened the excesses of my womanhood
: I always took care of myself well enough.
He’s probably more innocent than my
opinion makes of him—I just can’t help but blame
all my unhappiness on his weaknesses.
I mother in doubt… I hate myself for that.
I love my daughter more than anything
—am I the problem rather than the solution?
He still can't say my name correctly | (is that it?)
pronounces it | ironically as Yin Yang—how does he
continually mistake the ‘i’ with ‘oo’ | which makes
a deep ‘you’ sound—the ‘a’ with diphthong ‘eo’.
He is an idiot of the rarest sort.
It is panic at being confronted with alien
forces beyond his control. I gave up on him getting
it right | he calls me by my English (slave | lol) name
Rose | which sounds ridiculous…
I know the way out of a rose…