by H.R. Howell
Whores bore the hell out of me
with their abnormal-sized asses
and brown roots atop platinum blonde tails
And smart girls bore the hell out of me
with my visions of their nurse clothes
and black-rimmed, crescent glasses
And goth girls bore the hell out of me
with their quiet, fake poet composure
and automatic leg openers
And I bore the hell out of me
with my simple plaid shirts
and same grunge taste of similar-key music
The only exception is:
the bang of guns in my backyard,
followed by sex in the shallow shadows of clubs
Or perhaps
movie-like love with a scorpion stinger heart
accompanied by discovery of infertility (shoot us across the world!)
And maybe
school-bus skips, going to some house
with three shots of vodka left in the cabinet
But my body is here
somehow coexisting with a stagnant heart
and similar plaids and bands
Let’s go to New York,
maybe, or San Francisco?
and then possibly San Diego.
In the essence of my dreams,
I lie there with a scorpion heart
and three shots of vodka on my nightstand,
waiting to accompany me.

0 thoughts on “Bold

  1. i truly admire this poem, which can speak for a lost soul with its prejudices and self-denigration, in such dry detail. It’s how we all could be, without poetry.

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