Saturday alone on a love seat
for two with my roommate
plucking away at twisted nickel
across the room.

Unshowered, unmotivated,
a maybe Monday.

My clean laundry's a footrest
for ***** feet fresh off the
almost autumn asphalt.
Come visit us.

Be unshowered and unmotivated
on this maybe Monday.

Don't worry, the door's unlocked.
There's just a few hundred
flamingos waiting to get in,
but they should move

at the sound of your unshowered,
unmotivated, maybe Monday footsteps

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gKPEOfybQak&feature;=related

Remember his name when you look at the night sky.
                                                           - the Toe-cutter

You are the Night Rider,
a fuel-injected suicide machine,
a rocker, a roller,
a no-controller,
yer a cop killer,
the mighty weird hand of vengeance
come to smite the un-roadworthy.

You, Night Rider,
clearly unaffected
by the state’s urgings
to “yield” and, perhaps,
“soft shoulder”.

You are the Night Rider,
sleeping in on a Tuesday,
performing your masculinity
in unshowered, unshaved machissmo.

Night Rider,
won’t you come to your senses?
Nobody enjoys maniacal laughter
anymore.
It makes us think of ****,
covered in fleas, bedbugs,
whiskey ****,

or Janis,
and the last moments of an American Saigon.


Ahh… Night Rider,
we share your machine lust,
your fetish,
your hard-on for the muscle-*****,
the suped-up hot rod,
the last of the V-8 Interceptors
(1973 Australian Ford XB Falcon GT).
We, too, like a nitrous kit,
a roof and tail spoiler,
we likes our flat black:
………....................our murderous speed
………..........................has driven daddy to drinkin’.


We ride!


Night Rider, we understand.
We get the lurid infatuation,
but, ****, yer a hick-****,
all these roads lead to jail
–how have you not grasped this simple truth?

The highway is not freedom,
but a circular slave song.


Oh, rider of the night,
why all the re-runs of Seinfeld?
And cheese bread?
You’ve grown a belly, N.R.,
and while it might be glam
to be young, dumb
and full of ***,
or all muscle
in ****-less chaps at 21,
you’re 45, Night Rider,
and no-one cares anymore
about your straight-line revolution,
about your road to freedom,
about it,
about what kind of future
you and Floosie would’a made.

The kids are alright
but
they ain’t never heard
of you
nor your last,
wild-eyed flight.

As the Lord Humungous has indicated,
no one
gets out
alive.

I can't wait to get my tattoos.
I'll get the lyrics of all my favorite songs and poems
on my back
even though they say it's
not cool to get them where I can't see them
but you can admire them and trace them and read them
and kiss them
Will you lick my skin?
How do I taste, late at night
unshowered and covered in the day's breath?


If you promise to kiss every tattoo I get
I will get every inch of me inked
**Every inch

I’d put my feet up but for this **** poem.
burning behind my temples,
I drove this far today to be alone.

Such a long mess of a day; I swear I’ve grown,
but I’m too old- crows feet perched above dimples.
I’d put my feet up but for this **** poem

If I yawn and stretch my lungs any more I’ll decompose.
I’d trade a kidney for a long shower to **** these road pimples;
I drove this far to be alone.

My eyes glaze like shivering chrome,
tuckered out from scanning lousy stanzas full of samples.
I’d put my feet up but for this **** poem

But I’m still packed and unshowered, staring at memory foam
And now, sitting with this pen in hand ain’t simple.
I’d put my feet up but for this **** poem;
I only drove this far to be alone.

Words
wantlikejustfeelwayhandknowpaintimeworldlovenightthinkalrig­htstopgoingwon'titchheartfasterlongeatgoodbreathingsmokedarklivin­gsoulwomensayokayrunohspacecoldsleepcloseblacktattoomushroomsself­truthpreferheavylostlongertodayfeedlatedrugs mean days hunger fine weight hair drawn teacher shaking promise bed feeling leave times spinning keeps songs *** abyss cares terrible tried bring bad voice laughter hurt gave guess apathy you've blood skin life left aware little away they're strength things hate doesn't whiskey pulsing ended breath returned men eyes inch turn hold kiss lips pull look joe control warming blame footsteps stuffed shroud shows horizons moral engulf someday understand stops blushing hush decide weapon describing pattern lover solace confident carefree addicted expect lucid absent appeal laying cleaning banished screaming honest diligent scrape disillusioned loneliness splitting stitch grief closer hug science animals smoking collars bud guilt rhythm steals company offered accepting **** bottles lend weather birthday exists ignored cooking admire tough darling mere steal knife affection lap wayside silently passes vision uncertainty guilty vivid bonfires recall hated instinct disaster madness hungry lyrics escape pains ******* necklace halt routines adopt invaded evolved spaghetti antisocial stash proximity manifestation vying comics eyeliner stashed flannels inked successfully batman spiderman faceless vibrato attentions skylines tattoos joker legion sanguine teetering unrequited complications artwork auras logos brother's shakira all-encompassing can- michelle's 15 18th m83 mcr dissmisser's blesser's terribleaspect voidof nobody's soul's day's fellers skewing fran dumbed underdogs gaming skype unshowered she's aren't what's they'll let's sinartra coagulate swallowing ammunition heartbeat ideas affirmation beard tempo brink slows gloat deer lace studded require throbs believes spectrum detached crescendos cheer favor foundations tugging forgiving ablaze gentlemen extended falseness convinced beasts normality saturday

There are lots of topper things I adore on earth,
like cats, the moon and drunken mirth
or talking, the sea and a well buttered bun,
nights drawing in or long days in the sun.
Another thing I really like is having a shower in the morning,
it’s the perfect antidote to my just awoke yawning,
the aqua blast helps remove the yearning for more bed
the watery goodness bringing vitality to my head,
the soapy woosh invigorates and vamooses my alarm’s mesh,
I exit the bathroom feeling fantastically fresh
and when I’m sat on the bus to work I think “ohh, someone smells splendidly,
oh wait a minute, yeah, it’s me!
Now although I adore gliding into employment with the fragrance of roses
I don’t always heed my cleanliness craving after dozes,
If I’ve had a alcohol drenched Sunday with lots of venturing out
my wanting for a pre work bathe goes up the spout,
sometimes I’ll awake on Monday after a drunken slumber
and feel like I’ve been covered in a ton of lumber,
and think “right it’s either get up now and scrub myself clean
or hit snooze and have another 15”
as even musing on that is making what little energy I have sap
I pull the quilt tighter and take the nap,
the tiny jot of rest doesn’t even touch the side
and before I know I’m at the bus stop awaiting a ride,
I get on and sit down still knackered as hell
and think, “what is that that stale vino smell?
Ohh I bet someone unfortunate was sat here before me,
one of those who has to choose tween getting drunk and having their tea,
someone who everyday has to have more than a few,
then the penny drops, “Jesus Si that odour is coming from you!”
I’m weary, languid, my body is sore,
and because I didn’t shower I’ve got Pound Shop wine coming out of my pores
yeah 4 for tenner cheap plonk is great to toast the end of the paid employment week
but after 24 hours without a cleanse  it pongs pretty bleak,
I’ve got eau de toillete of rotten grape reek.
I hum like I’ve slept in a pre Herculean task Stables Of Aegean that’s been dosed in a dregs of wine pump,
or stench like a on the streets Oliver Twist spliced with a wino Stig Of The Dump.
The bus pulls up to work and before I head in I think I’ll grab something greasy to eat,
ohh, congealed fat mixed with a day on the beers stink, your mates’ nostrils are in for a treat.
I slob to my desk like the unbathed thing I feel
And ponder, “that shower later better be the real deal.”
But, I don’t always rue not having a shower on a Monday because sometimes it means I don’t have the aroma of a stale wine scene,
sometimes uncleansed has me feeling serene!
I remember one unshowered Monday as I’d seen you on the Sunday I smelt of that perfume you always wear,
cos as you’re huggy and tactile it was on my clothes, some of it was even in what was left of my hair,
and as that scent reminded me of you what swirled around me was your awesome breeze,
suffice to say that day of employment passed with ease,
as whenever I got bored of pretending to look at that work thing on Excel
i’d get a hint of your fragrance and my thoughts would propel
with,
your easy wisdom and penchant for a chats
how you like Amaretto and how you love cats,
how you help out animals when they’re feeling brittle
with the tender coo of a Dr Doolittle.
You can take a piece of junk that was discarded at leisure,
decorate it with aplomb and turn it into a treasure,
you’re a burst of energy, a buzzing sprite,
a pleasure to be around, a total delight,
you’re interested in the world, and quantum theory,
talking to you is never dreary,
you bounce around the pub fabulously gassing with the many folk you see,
opening conversations with your splendid key,
**** you seem as popular as me!
Ahh, your joyful demeanour and fantastic soar,
how could anyone fail to hear your wonderful caw;
Emma every time I see you I like you more!
And on those your perfume days when I do get home, hit the shower and feel cleanliness envelop my face
I think, “you know for a ***** day you turned out pretty ace!”!

1.)

I came home from a marching band event, (I'd call it a football game, but in that little tent on the sidelines, the whole football team gathered and watched their 69-0  loss.) I barely ate and went to sleep.

2.)

I scrolled through Pinterest and saved dank depression memes.

3.)

My unofficial girlfriend called me a GIRL and I've died inside.

4.)

I didn't complete that assignment, I just sat there filthy, unshowered, and called it depression, instead of calling my therapist.

I'm alone and my eyes are on fire from the brightness of two on a sunday
I wonder what I look like, unshowered, abused by the wind that strangely doesn't affect the tree branches but sweeps up the tiny Chinese lady on Myrtle.
Presidential?
There were no mirrors for a while
People sat shiva until they figured out how to bathe and polish metal
Before the Greeks or Romans
I didn't look in the mirror this morning
But it's more than that
How often do I really smile?
You see, this is why I can't stand
hearing my recorded voice
Let alone see myself in a video
I'd never be able to do that
Without feeling equally ashamed and dissociated
But half of me eggs it on
The mordbidly curious half that likes seeing gory horror films
Come on, I want the cold hard facts.
I want to know the icy truth
Just like the Sunday afternoon wind.

I've realized that all I want in life is to be rescued.
No matter how happy I am now, all I think of is the "one day" where I'm saved.
I'm a wife, and a young mother.
I'm taller and more slender, more like my sister. My hair is perfectly curled, long, thick, dark, colorful. I wear a t shirt with some nondescript band logo and torn skinny jeans.
I come out from behind the kitchen counter with a beer.
My husband walks in the door, introducing me to whatever guest he's brought over.
I am strong and secure and I don't need anyone.
But it's not true.
I picture this Robyn often these days.
She's everything I wish I could be and nothing I can.
That Robyn is a woman. She doesn't need anyone.
I need so much.

I am overweight. I've gained 20 pounds in 6 months from my antidepressants. I need antidepressants to get out of bed.
My hair is thin and splitting. The color is fading and the spontaneous haircut I got makes me look like a child.
I'm wearing pajamas that don't fit me, I'm unshowered, sweaty, sore, and I can't make myself get off the couch. I ate far too much for dinner but I didn't even finish my plate. I'm alone.
The air darkens around me and I don't get up.
I need so much. I'm pathetic and desperate to be rescued. I hate needing. I beg myself to get up, to be strong, to not need anyone or anything, but I can't. I'm so sick of needing.
I can't post this, because I know my boyfriend will read it, and though I know he will respond with love and kindness and selflessness, I know there will be resentment. It may only be the beginning of a small seed - this again? really? can't she just get it together? - but it will grow.
If I just lay here, quietly. . . I can keep the seed from growing. I can stunt the growth, I can dry the soil, I can make him believe that I'm strong, that I don't need, that I'm capable. He will love me and admire me. I will be a strong woman who he will never leave.
Because he can't leave.
I need him.
I'm so ******* sick of needing.
I pray for rescue from my desire to be rescued.