where did she goooo?
…
mah luuuv-ly?
ah wanna nooooo…
wh-r do u whar do u goooo?
“what?”
i’m talkin’ ‘boute that one renter,
you know,
with the smokin’ hot bod
and the mini pincher dog,
who we only ever saw
when they’d test the fire alarm?
the babe, not the dog.
h-h-h-ho-ho-way
h-h-h-ho-ho-way
“who’re you
yammering about now,
hm?
i told you the girl at Jasper’s funeral was
probably twelve.
it’s the GMOs in the food:
that’s why rule of sevens, dude.”
Management would like to acknowledge & thank the participation of the involved, for their assistance in producing the above feature. It has been shortened from its original exhibition. It was made as a response to my dissatisfaction with post-secondary, and should not be taken seriously. For those interested, an unsanctioned IMDB listing can be found here.
the smitten
are only going to give you
as much grace as they can.
nothing waits forever
unless you work across from them
often turning one-hundred-and-eighty-degrees
in their direction
not for them –
it’s just part of your job description;
accidentally break
at the same time as them,
back-and-forth, braiding one another between
the sink and the toaster oven.
they exit the saloon doors
one after another like a
fashion show,
or open functions on an AS400
or ants, out of woodwork
marching vertically along split trenches of bark,
their petite outlines shadowed by the street lights
of the car park.
i don’t know how much time has passed.
i wasn’t keeping track, and
i’m almost hooting ash.
when do i have to go back?
so it looks more like i’m smoking
and less like a jackass?
it’s a great excuse, to be so old-fashioned
you’d rather you lived in an era you were able
than every five minutes having to excuse yourself
from the table.
i had a dream about Chappell Roan
full stop.
okay not about her, but one in which
she appeared.
pretty sure it was her.
i feel i should be throwing confetti in the air.
blow a kazoo
and it wasn’t a sex dream,
don’t believe me?
and there wasn’t any reactive,
MS Paint-quality nudity.
calm down –
it was actuated by a photo
i saw of her without
too much makeup on
standing alone in profile on a press go-around
with a wallpaper of watermarks like you’d see
in the background,
no wig, dyed hair luminescent
and wearing what some call a ‘normal’ top
with thong straps,
staring straight ahead like i was the skeez
peering over her property line,
standing at that precipice with my hands on its ledge
when really i’m thousands of miles away
on a screen
how, then
to describe my dreams?
in repetitious themes.
always searching for something the most
difficult, illogical way i can
so just like the rest of person
& animal kind.
i had the ‘A’ tattooed on my hand –
the sign for ‘Awake’, to help with lucidity –
but i still close my eyes at the bottom of a hill
looking up –
Kate Bush can run if she wants to, i’m not with her group
or driving through a backwood overhung
so i can get to something parochial and dumb,
like a locker with a combination i can’t remember
at the middle school i went to more than twenty years prior
you following?
because it’s the last day to hand in the essay
worth 80% of my grade?
just like the all-nighters i would pull in university,
and of course there’s no parking
’cause it’s Activity Day
so everyone can see me coming up the roadway
but it isn’t vice-versa with their skinwalker outlays
and the halls are empty;
all these fucking corridors look the same –
Chappell ain’t here, she would’ve just started Primary;
there’s no receptionist, no aids –
a challenging intention
devolves into simple wandering,
and so it goes again and again.
theory of a daskeman 