EverydayAngelKarie
Joined: 07 Mar 2007
Posts: 761
Location: Lakewood, CA
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Bathroom Snorters
I am Clean Freak. I love you:
Lackadaisical cigarette ash flicked
on my brand new David Bowie Hunky Dory t-shirt,
spurious holes in the knees of my jeans, bike-braking
crater in the sole of my thrift store shoes,
onion and garlic-stuffed olives on the stream of my exhalation,
Ponderosa cellar door jammed in the void
of my ponderous felinity, compact disc track:
Kittie’s “Run Like Hell” skipping like heart attack
in my ten-year old portable Sony CD player, batteries nearly dead,
leaking into my anatomy through surgical headphones;
the osmosis of germs on uncovered toilet seats
and ever-oozing cysts in the mouth of a million skintags.
You were Fresh Air. I loved you:
Snuggling porcupine in my nostrils,
fairy-dusted booger picker, puking rainbows
into my socks like a herd of belligerent unicorns on acid,
cadaverous and invading pimples declaring World War III
on the green pastures of my numbskull forehead,
kite flying on a windless mountain peak, oil spill
in the back of my infected throat, dilation of my pupils
drowned in gasoline, explosive’s wick ready for smokescreen.
I was Smog Cloud. I loved you.
Eating you up like princesses do frogs,
when frogs only become lily-hopping lies,
and wench and homemaker are the only real royalty
of heart, hugging you with the gusto of tornado like marriage
between man and cat, woman and car, pickles and marinara,
street corner marijuana and Starbuck’s entire franchise,
illegal activity and opportunity wooing youthful utility,
cookie-cutter Red Light District inspired leather skirts
and bullet-studded belts rolled into dough,
best served cold, pale, and Freudian stripped.
We were Bathroom Snorters. I loved you.
Cleaning pocket mirrors of our allowance’s dust,
our instinct to use the holes in our faces as vacuums
to save unnatural energy from wasting away, our fingers
and tongues as Lysol wipes and powdered Latex gloves,
behind the camouflage of faux-ghetto graffiti written in cherry
lipstick on the walls of our high school’s only stall big enough for two:
BETTER FLUSH BITCHEZZZZZZZ
We are T. Rex. I love you.
Risen from fossils and rampaging, zombies
convoluting yawns to seem like, ten years later, we’re still alive,
72 hour hangover bodies from only twelve hours of chugging on Sunday,
queer lovers avoiding parole and probation, anti-feminist plankers prepping
divers for the deep of any-Jane’s underwater psyche, beating and throbbing
with the red of tides. We are the keen eye makeup of raccoons
ready to tear ancient doctrine to shreds.
Anaphora in agony.
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