The Cum Graveyard

I return to my sister’s Portland apartment to walk her dog. We set out on our usual late night trek but this time I aim for The Cum Graveyard. The Cum Graveyard is a neighborhood corpse dump that reeks of cum. Not always but often enough. You can smell it from the street. Hot semen. Past fresh seed. Olfactory origins unknown but the stink a haunting presence.

The Cum Graveyard has old, weather-fucked stones and is guarded by an iron wrought fence. Its land is raised, a small hill, and you have to look up to see in. Into this odd spot of semen reek. When I dance on weekends I walk by these ghost loads with vodka and edibles sifting through my system. My drug-fucked brain flips a breaker at the smell of cum but then remembers. Ah yes, this is the land where bodies rot but still try to conceive.

The dog and I walk past a row of rundown campers. Trash-fucked streets on the far side of the cemetery. The last time I circled these parts I heard a van dweller listening to voicemails on speakerphone. Tonight I see a garbage bag in the middle of the street. As we cross I spot another on the corner.

It’s a black five gallon container with pizza spilling out. The solidified aftermath of an Italian volcano. I dig in and come up with a slice. My tongue registers it as dry and cold but I scavenge and score two more that crumble at my touch.

I fold them into a sandwich and as I do I look up to see a shirtless bum stumbling my way. He’s on a tangent and kicking at stuff on the sidewalk. He appears old and haggard and out of his mind. I fear this is his bag of pizza but before I can even pause my podcast he’s crossed the street and is now on all fours, crawling and shouting aside The Cum Graveyard.

A man dashes out his car to see if he’s okay but the bum’s just yelling and not currently with this earth. No damage other than the mess in his brain. I look at what he kicked as he passed by. I spot a sandal, boot, and dress shoe, none with matches. I look back to the bum and he’s gone from screaming to crawling to passed out in less than two minutes.

I fetch the other bag from the middle of the street. It too is full of loose pizza, along with an open five pound jar of peanut butter. It has no lid and I set these things in bushes. Not all the food survived. There’s flattened pieces between me and Mr. Bum. I look at him lying fetal. Wonder if he’s inhaling jizz fumes in this drug-induced slumber.

The dog and I walk by my dance spot. I think I’ve found a score of food and booze left in a doorway but after an amble then return a man inhales the loot. We stall in hopes he’ll leave but no go. On the next block I pass a dumpster where a hot ass homeless lady rifles the recycling as her dog rests on the sidewalk. It gets up to sniff my guy so she leaves the trash to retrieve him and apologize. I say no biggie then point toward home.

We approach the cemetery bum and from fifty feet he sits up to spike a bottle to cement, mutter a few words, then pass out once more. Motor functions of body not mind. Homeless chicken with its head cut off. I spot foam plus a pillow further down. Maybe they’re his but he was too fucked to go the extra hundred feet to find his bed. Instead he rests on cement beside his soon to be burial plot.

I take deep breaths but only catch night air. No cum. No ghost loads. I think of the man on the sidewalk. The months and years and hundreds of nights I spent sleeping in my car. There’s no cum to be inhaled but I just had a great Portland night. And now I have somewhere to sleep out the darkness. Not in a hot, mold-filled car. Not shirtless aside The Cum Graveyard. A pad on a floor in a real apartment.

As the dog shits in darkness I think what a great night to be alive. To be inside! To wake another day and hope that soon the ghosts will be horny. Ready to infuse the earth with seed once more. I’ll have my nose at the ready. Ready for deep huffs of demon seed. Tongue dripping wet for trash pizza. Eyes and ears in search of a shirtless bum. Summer in Portland. What a time to be alive.

P.S. I went back the next night and though all the pizza and peanut butter were gone, the dress shoe now had a match.


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