Four Poems (January 20, 2012. Issue 34.)
goodbye, smiles
She
doesn't smile at me
anymore
after I kiss her.
She
used to smile at me
all the time
after I kissed her,
a great big grin
from ear to ear,
and I'd think,
Man,
what a great kisser
I am.
I must really be
the best.
But I can't take all the credit.
Good job, lips.
Good work, tongue.
You guys make a great team!
I loved seeing
her smile at me
after we kissed.
She would smile at me
so big
and so wide
that I thought the corners
of her lips
were going to tear
and rip into her cheeks,
and blood was going to spurt out
everywhere
and all over my face.
That would've really been gross.
Plus I don't do well
with blood.
Seeing a lot of it
makes me want to pass out
like I have
the vapors
or something.
So I'm glad I never saw
her smile
tear into her cheeks
like that,
but at the same time,
if it ever had happened,
I secretly would've been
at least
a little bit happy
knowing that it was
because of me
that she had torn her face
smiling.
But
I don't have to worry
about that happening
anymore,
because she
no longer smiles at me
after I kiss her.
I don't know why.
I really wonder
what it could be.
I don't have bad breath.
I don't eat stinky foods
like onions,
or garlic,
or Limburger cheese.
I brush my teeth
too.
I also floss.
Well,
not every day.
Occasionally though,
and I chew minty gum
too,
and I shower.
I think I smell good,
so I don't know what it is.
Maybe I'm just not good
at kissing anymore.
Maybe I'm slipping.
Maybe I just need
to practice
my kissing a little bit.
I could do that.
I could practice
my kissing.
Look…
Mwah!
Mwah!
Mwah!!!
There.
I feel like a better kisser
already.
I hope that's all it is.
The one before her
stopped smiling
after I kissed her
too,
then she left me,
but I guess that's what happens
sometimes.
Women leave you,
and they take away
the kisses,
and the head,
and the hand jobs,
and the fucking,
but what always comes closest
to killing me
is that they take away
the smiles
too.
The smiles
are always
the first to go,
and then, all at once,
they suddenly take away
the smell of their hair,
their laughter,
the after-sex showers,
the kitten noises
they make
as they become sleepy,
the sitcom lullabies,
the sighs of euphoria
they let out
as they lay down in your arms
because you make them
feel safe, and,
in return,
you feel more like
a man
than you ever have
in your entire
life.
They take away
all those things,
all those wonderful things
which returned levity
to your encumbranced
being.
Amy,
you have already taken away
the smiles.
When you take away
everything else
please
do it slowly
and steadily.
It may be long
and painful,
but this way
it will not
kill me.
You see,
Amy,
I can get kisses
from any girl,
from any person,
even from your roommate's dog.
He tries to kiss me
all the time.
But what I can't get
from any of them
is your smile.
So please,
either give it back
or let me go.
I think
that's right.
I think
that's only
fair.
epitaph
"Sophomorically wise,
Idiotically brilliant."
That's what I want it to say
on my gravestone.
I used to want my gravestone to read,
"Man, what a monster cock he had…"
but I didn't think anyone
would believe it.
Plus,
I want to have kids someday,
and after I die
I'd like for them to occasionally come
and visit my grave,
and I just feel like they'd be
a lot less inclined
to come visit me if I had
"Man, what a monster cock he had…"
etched onto my tombstone.
But maybe if I did a good enough job,
maybe if I was a decent enough dad,
they'd still come and visit my grave
regardless of whether I had that
engraved
on there
or not.
I figure that if I can get my kids
to come and visit my grave
after I die
at all,
even just once,
that maybe my life
wasn't a complete failure,
maybe I wasn't
a complete fucking fuck up
as a human being.
We all just want to feel special,
and we would all love to be adored
by the entire world,
but maybe you don't need
the entire world to find you special,
maybe you don't need
the entire world to adore you.
Maybe all you need
in the end
is a handful
of people
that will still come
and visit your grave
even if you have,
"Man, what a monster cock he had…"
engraved on your tombstone.
Maybe that would be a victory
for me in itself,
and maybe,
just maybe
someone would actually believe
I had a monster cock
too.
Man
that'd be awesome.
energy drinks and diet sodas
I like energy drinks.
I like diet sodas too.
They both taste good,
and therefore I drink both of them
quite frequently,
especially diet soda.
Because I drink so many
energy drinks,
and because I drink
so many diet sodas,
I have to pee quite a bit
throughout the day.
Pissing so much
throughout the day
might annoy most people,
but I really don't mind it.
I don't mind it at all
actually.
I like taking pisses,
especially long ones.
Sometimes when I have to pee
I hold it in
for as long as I can.
This way my pisses last longer
coming out.
I like taking long pisses.
They feel extra good
as they spray out of me
and into the toilet.
I spend most of my day
feeling nothing at all,
and when I do finally feel something
it's usually something
pretty horrible like
sadness,
frustration,
hopelessness,
embarrassment,
aggravation,
anxiety,
shame,
dread.
But the long pisses make me feel good.
They're an amazing release.
They're like a longer
but much more mild orgasm.
Plus I don't have to chase
or beg
or by some girl dinner
or drinks
to get one.
That and I don't need to repay the favor
and have my face
stuck in between her legs
for forty-five minutes,
tracing designs
all over her crotch
with the tip of my tongue
as she squirms
and writhes
and continually tells me how close she is.
(I'm either really bad at it
or really good at it.
I'm not sure yet
as to which one
though.)
No,
all I need to do
to feel good
when I don't have any other reason
to feel good
is drink an energy drink,
or a diet soda,
and then eventually
I'll take a piss
and feel good again
inside.
It's never much,
and it never lasts for long,
but only until you're able
to find small amounts
of happiness
loitering in the shadows
and cowering in the darkness
will you ever be able to find it
anywhere else.
That's why I drink
energy drinks
and diet sodas.
That and they taste
really good
too.
freak show
Sometimes
I wish I had been born
with a dildo
on my head.
Especially one
that comically
wobbled
back and forth
whenever I walked.
That'd be great.
Or sometimes
I wish I had been born
with a third arm
shooting straight
out of my ass,
and instead of a hand,
I just had a tiny
boombox
on the end of my arm
that played nothing but
Creed
over
and over
and over.
Or sometimes
I wish I had been born
with vagina lips
on my mouth
instead of these regular
lips I have now,
and with a dog's snout
with a cold,
rubbery, wet
black nose
instead of this
plain old,
boring,
normal nose.
Or sometimes
I wish I had been born
a different color, like
purple
or red
or blue
or green
or periwinkle
or teal.
Any one of those
would be fine
with me.
I'm not picky.
Man…
It really would have been great
to have been born with any one
of those deformities,
to have something
so freakishly wrong with me.
People would've
stared at me,
spat at me,
laughed at me,
ridiculed me,
bullied me.
It would've been amazing.
Well,
maybe not amazing,
but at least then
I would've had a reason as to why
I itch
for isolation,
why I crave
solitude.
Because now
people don't
stare at me,
spit at me,
laugh at me,
ridicule me
or
bully me,
and still,
all I want is to be
all alone,
all alone,
all alone
all the time,
and you know what that means:
that means there's
really
something
wrong with me. |