Author: wd

i cant guarantee im always around, but when i am, consequences will never be the same.

got me with the say to me

A poem.

Lord help me
to stop being so creepy.

is it the porn, God? i’ve tried,
i really have. well, you’ve watched me,
you’ve seen!
now i skip Kelly Madison’s hubby’s tomfoolery for something less mean –
not that Japanese aphrodisiac massage isn’t plenty obscene.

it’s easy to say it’s hard to be me
cause no one else i know has lived the life i lead
except the successful ones on the front covers of magazines
who overcame their bullshit before they were twenty –
harder still to be the me i want to be,
when what i’ve been through is a terrible tragedy.
sounds like more whining & complaining to me!

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consensual and contractually-obligated

A poem.

when we get closer
though i can see marks in the mirror,
i can’t hide my fervor.
but we have nothing to say to one another.

i look inside
to deep, vapid eyes
so muted and so wide
and wonder why then, that it’s no surprise
that when i spin your yarn, i get no reply.
is that because you’re shy?
cause that’s the excuse that chick had used
on that Bret Michaels show with all the boobs
and you can’t tell me you’re shy with that stomach tattoo –
so used to being called beautiful
that good conversation is when the guy ain’t in the mood.

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let the kids with their parents’ money

go and have all the fun

A poem.

there was no money in my house growing up.
well, there was,
but my dad wouldn’t let us touch.
we were a frugal bunch.
that’s probably why i stole from him so much.

but the adage went,
it was his to do with as he saw fit.
he made it: he alone could spend it,
making all the decisions for the family unit.
that was

until there was nothing left in the accounts to stretch –
he was laid-off from his nine-to-five
and couldn’t make a living doing work on the side.
then my mother got a job –
hurt his amour-propre –
throwing a wrench into his life she had robbed.

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wasn’t great

A poem.

my counsellor told me to deal in certainties;
to stop worrying about things outside me;
to find my new identity,
stop living in the past and get with this century.

i don’t like movies anymore.

there was a time that finding
a new Oliver Reed film would excite me,
or rewatching something by Spike Jonze
or Paul Schrader could entice me
to stick my head out of the hole where no one could find me.
when watching Dirty Work for the dozenth time
or any Evil Dead would put me on cloud nine
when all i wanted to do was stop being alive.

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dick health

A poem.

porn stars champion against STDs;
their charters of rights & freedoms,
but what if it hurts to pee?
is that still statistically-considered a disease
if you’ve been yanking on your widget since you were thirteen,
and now you’re thirty-four
and when you stand over the bowl
you’re afraid you’ll shit your pants with how hard you extoll?

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