i see your resignation
and i feel your frustration
but yours’ is not a unique situation:
that way you remember, all those
years ago,
when you look in the face of your daughter and you see
how her mother looked back at you like Anya Taylor-Joy
looks over her shoulder at Edgar Wright
when he needs her to do one-more-take of guarded plight,
just like she thought she might
when she graced the cover of a Shyamalan fright:
and then i went outside & hotboxed my car
and could feel a weight right on top of me.
no boner: just a feeling
because i’m pretty sure my dick is dying
but i was only idling,
recalling other times other loves had held me
and that sensation flowed through me
and visually, i thought how the rest would be
as i imagined i wrapped my arms around her
and kissed her neck; smelled her hair,
thinking i could drag it on even longer
because time didn’t matter. i’d learned
how crucial it is, to make use of what i’d had
not that going out like Craig wouldn’t be totally rad,
but when would i ever find myself in a position like that?
getting fucking nuked while on top of a silo
telling my second true love i’d be waiting in the afterglow?
just have her and Vesper lesbian-domination wrestle.
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!
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.
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.
theory of a daskeman 