Jun 2016
Earlier this week I spoke of some days
I’d rather forget.
I shared benign versions in the hope
that it is seen that the world is as good
or bad as you want to make it.
I’m reminded that sometimes
the ignorance of youth plays a part,
and you’re in bed with a stripper who’s shaking,
sweating, and stops breathing now and again,
and you’re holding on tight as she snores, moans,
writhes, and howls.
Because, you want to be in love with her
and you want to run screaming from your own apartment.
because nothing you’ve ever done,
no life you’ve ever lived,
the call center,
the furnished room,
the phone calls to your parents
when the bank account is down to pennies
has ever prepared you to lay next to someone
who’s all jacked up on some kind of dope
that you’ve never heard anything about
except for the stuff that you’ve seen
in movies or on TV, but that’s all
******* isn’t it?
And, you hope that you don’t wake up
next to a dead body,
so you don’t go to sleep at all,
So, that’s off the table isn’t it?
And, you make coffee and write
in your stupid notebook
about how much you think
you’re in love with this doped up hyena
in the sack with you,
just because she let you rub up on her *******
a handful of times and you’ve run your fingers
thru her bush a few times.
And, you think that’s where love starts
but you don’t know a ******* thing about love,
but you’ve passed over a handful of $20s because
she says she’s broke and hungry and that’s what someone
who loves someone does.
You’re too ******* stupid or naïve to realize, to know
that the dough buys the dope and that she ***** some
of the other customers for the same thing she gets from you
w/o the ***** and w/o all of your foolishness, your *******.
And, the morning comes and she’s still alive, so are you,
and so is everyone else.
And, you wrote her a love poem in that
******* notebook of yours.
So, you ask her if she wants to hear you read it,
and you really mean it, you really want her to hear it,
to love it, to see that she means something to your foolish,
child’s heart.
But, she laughs at you,
puts her clothes on,
grabs her bag,
and walks out the door.
*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications; 2016
I’d rather forget.
I shared benign versions in the hope
that it is seen that the world is as good
or bad as you want to make it.
I’m reminded that sometimes
the ignorance of youth plays a part,
and you’re in bed with a stripper who’s shaking,
sweating, and stops breathing now and again,
and you’re holding on tight as she snores, moans,
writhes, and howls.
Because, you want to be in love with her
and you want to run screaming from your own apartment.
because nothing you’ve ever done,
no life you’ve ever lived,
the call center,
the furnished room,
the phone calls to your parents
when the bank account is down to pennies
has ever prepared you to lay next to someone
who’s all jacked up on some kind of dope
that you’ve never heard anything about
except for the stuff that you’ve seen
in movies or on TV, but that’s all
******* isn’t it?
And, you hope that you don’t wake up
next to a dead body,
so you don’t go to sleep at all,
So, that’s off the table isn’t it?
And, you make coffee and write
in your stupid notebook
about how much you think
you’re in love with this doped up hyena
in the sack with you,
just because she let you rub up on her *******
a handful of times and you’ve run your fingers
thru her bush a few times.
And, you think that’s where love starts
but you don’t know a ******* thing about love,
but you’ve passed over a handful of $20s because
she says she’s broke and hungry and that’s what someone
who loves someone does.
You’re too ******* stupid or naïve to realize, to know
that the dough buys the dope and that she ***** some
of the other customers for the same thing she gets from you
w/o the ***** and w/o all of your foolishness, your *******.
And, the morning comes and she’s still alive, so are you,
and so is everyone else.
And, you wrote her a love poem in that
******* notebook of yours.
So, you ask her if she wants to hear you read it,
and you really mean it, you really want her to hear it,
to love it, to see that she means something to your foolish,
child’s heart.
But, she laughs at you,
puts her clothes on,
grabs her bag,
and walks out the door.
*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications; 2016
