(i’m just looking for a pot to puke in)
A poem.
she doesn’t have any hips
and she doesn’t have an ass –
though she hides what she has under two-size-too-big sweatpants;
her voice is shrill and argumentative
and she doesn’t have any tits,
but she’s only 18,
so she’s just right for me.
she has no experience on matters of life and death,
and when you ask her how she feels,
her expression is bereft –
she only knows enough just to skirt on the fringes
of friendships contingent on how they look:
you know about Thrasher magazine. that’s a bonus.
now maybe you could reward yourself with a donut.
theory of a daskeman 