The Midway.

I don’t pretend to know,

which dagger of mine to throw,

you know, I’ve built up an arsenal,

the ubiquitous, carnivorous carnival;

 

the sound of a broke-down calliope,

worn through that last shred of sanity,

drawn to the worst magnetically,

out of the huge crowd of humanity;

 

but before you sink your fangs into,

such a back-stabber’s dream-come-true,

help me decide which blade best suits you,

to wear forever as defensive scar wounds.

Kidding.

Beautiful, gorgeous, happy glow…
Your Sweetest Nothing’s
put into syllables, for show.
Fiery, wanting…
glued to your face
your mouth’s curves
a daunting place…
I’ve been before
But tell me how – I bow down
into the splinters and cinders
that litter the floors
like your long line of whores
I see them all,
I choose to ignore…
You never answer questions
your many Life Lessons
have taught you little of
the snap inside my rubber glove
We are meant to Own our possessions.
Are we not?
You have seen quite a lot
Of my flesh,
Camera flash;
digitalized dash
in red LED text;
what now?
Onto the next…
Right?
Or am I wrong?
Am I dumb
To play along?
See here’s the thing:
I see the strings
Attached to each one
Of your crispy clean
cummerbunds…
I see the line of
Space and time,
wrapped inside
Of that tattoo –
You were too pure
to follow through…
Ouch!
this hurts miserably;
Yes you , yes me.
Look away if you must
Please?
Your face is too much
to see, anyway.
Ouch!
Just go on about your
fashionable way.
You were fine before
I came along
In my string bikini thong
to knock upon your door;
You’ll be fine now,
and I guess…
so will I, somehow –
Just forget it all,
my cries and calls,
forget me
don’t see me…
don’t see me fall.
You won’t believe me,
Anyway…
Your ears don’t hear
a word I say.
Go fucking play
As you have,
each and every day
as it’s passed.
What was that?
What did you say?
“Score?…Because of…?”
And you’re talking about
How I showed
my bare ass to you –
FUCK YOU.
For that,
I counter you:
Mr. Fashionably True,
I hope this finds you well;
I hope it reaches you;
And hits you
makes you hurt
as you’re looking up my skirt…
What’s the score again?
Mr. Hockey Man –
dead red battery
flashing in your corner screen,
you don’t know the bones
that construct Lil’ Ol’ Me,
nothing taken seriously…
so fuck yourself,
good and hard –
multiplied by twelve.
I am a star,
And I will shine in Hell –
Quit kidding yourself.

Woke Up Wrong.

My Saturday has gotten off to quite the shitty start so far:

1) Before I even had my coffee, my dumbass roommate decided to pop out and scare the fuck out of me – rendering me startled and angry before I even had my wits about me for the day. (The affected throat chop that he received has left heavy tension lingering in the cool morning air, as a result).
2) The remaining female Society Finches (Chewy, Fet, The Crown and Bobo) are still screaming non-stop (going on like ten consecutive days now) and my head is about to explode from the noise.
3) I have people calling my phone before it even hits 9am.
4) I am scheduled to see my mother in about an hour from now.
5) I will be forced to hole up in my room for the remainder of the weekend that I spend at home because my fucking dense roommate has pissed me off – – – AGAIN.
6) The sense of laziness that permeates here during the weekends drives me up the walls: granted, yes you worked all week too…but for fuck’s sake Dude – get off your fat ass and do SOMETHING besides sit on the couch, for once.
7) If I hear the opening theme to Bones, or that stupid ass sample from the 70’s that my roommate seems to think is the best sound ever made, even one more time – KABOOM.

Kidding.

125

Beautiful, gorgeous, happy glow…
Your Sweetest Nothing’s
put into syllables, for show.
Fiery, wanting…
glued to your face
your mouth’s curves
a daunting place…
I’ve been before
But tell me how – I bow down
into the splinters and cinders
that litter the floors
like your long line of whores
I see them all,
I choose to ignore…
You never answer questions
your many Life Lessons
have taught you little of
the snap inside my rubber glove
We are meant to Own our possessions.
Are we not?
You have seen quite a lot
Of my flesh,
Camera flash;
digitalized dash
in red LED text;
what now?
Onto the next…
Right?
Or am I wrong?
Am I dumb
To play along?
See here’s the thing:
I see the strings
Attached to each one
Of your crispy clean
cummerbunds…
I see the line of
Space and time,
wrapped inside
Of that tattoo –
You were too pure
to follow through…
Ouch!
this hurts miserably;
Yes you , yes me.
Look away if you must
Please?
Your face is too much
to see, anyway.
Ouch!
Just go on about your
fashionable way.
You were fine before
I came along
In my string bikini thong
to knock upon your door;
You’ll be fine now,
and I guess…
so will I, somehow –
Just forget it all,
my cries and calls,
forget me
don’t see me…
don’t see me fall.
You won’t believe me,
Anyway…
Your ears don’t hear
a word I say.
Go fucking play
As you have,
each and every day
as it’s passed.
What was that?
What did you say?
“Score?…Because of…?”
And you’re talking about
How I showed
my bare ass to you –
FUCK YOU.
For that,
I counter you:
Mr. Fashionably True,
I hope this finds you well;
I hope it reaches you;
And hits you
makes you hurt
as you’re looking up my skirt…
What’s the score again?
Mr. Hockey Man –
dead red battery
flashing in your corner screen,
you don’t know the bones
that construct Lil’ Ol’ Me,
nothing taken seriously…
so fuck yourself,
good and hard –
multiplied by twelve.
I am a star,
And I will shine in Hell –
Quit kidding yourself.