ain’t for me…

“espri decor”

fuckin’ hearts & flowers;
fuckin’ everywhere.
i can’t take it, can’t take
the sentiment; snappy
sappy bullshit-bankrupt promotional
aspects of misanthropic dealings;
denial, arbitrary ejaculations,
tantric conceptuality.
feels more like sandpaper then
ice cubes, but still it all goes…
‘least i think it goes on; so much
pretense & pretend that bragging rights
take on a life of their own.

so we casually watch this train-wreck
take shape on the horizon, laughing
’cause the same damn story is playing
out on channels four through six. who needs
to break into decibels of emotion
when you can get it free thinking back
to the most recent argument fueled
by issues of proprietary-ownership
rights & responsibilities;
know they were wrong
and you were right.

still it doesn’t feel any better. nothing
can salve that irritated compulsion
towards incandescence, playing with
your fuck-stick and knowing
you’d really stuck it to her; all the while
she’s sure as sure can be that
she put one over on him
without really trying.
pace and levels are all over the map,
kicked around, screamed at,
and get this;
they’re coming back for more.

fuckin’ hearts & flowers; buttery
bullshit games egged on by the sale
and manufacture of greeting cards, ’cause
if it ain’t said, it must not be.
guilt-edged rationale for the kind
of misbehavior that rankles those
without proper conception of their place
(or lack thereof)
in the universe. somehow, the story is
still all about them, their undying love
for that one thing; so forth & so on,
that, or the power of faith to overcome
what rulers measure and calendars count.

accusations of immorality can be
disregarded as sour grapes;
even if the tone says “fuck me like
you want to”; the forehead wrinkles
in obscure proportion to the degree of
license taken;
questions are answered
in masticated construction; chewing
on every sentence to condense it down
to an essence of an idea.

not for me. none of its really that
romantic anyway; not in the
tramp-steamer conception of industrial age
magic. trading diamonds for fellatio,
or worse, not a damn thing in return
but a raging headache & projected
fantasy. maybe swing by the grocery store,
grab the flowers in the icy water,
toss ’em in a bag with the word
“roses” printed over n’ over, a talisman
rather than mostly dead flowers
in a plastic bag.
also, peonies are not roses.

(and then and then)

she’s hoping for date night;
lousy chinese food and a bad movie
followed by the requisite fisting,
ass if she’s unlucky;
pussy if she is. he’s hoping for easy-meat;
no fear of using four letter words
to get inside her pussy
but in no rush to say much,
other than a “yes” and a few grunts
of pleasure before ending her night
approximately thirty seconds too soon.

after it’s all over; somewhere between
good night & good luck,
the shimmery sensation of impending
explosion becomes the topic of a
conversation that is supposed to
last forever but ends quickly
after the first words fall flat.
it all comes signed on the card
attached to the flowers, says
love tonight, disappointment

in the background; laughter.
every joke delivers in exactly the
same way. affix eyes, grin wide;
the incongruity of love;
and those crazy kids.


Inspired by the age old story of a boy and a girl. They romance, they love, they fight, then swear their undying love. Then they fist, fuck, spindle and dance until loyalty is forsworn. I think it’s the same reason St. Augustine asked god to make him chaste…but not yet. Since we’ve all played most of the roles we know all the lines. Some of us have figured out all the parts its OK to laugh at, then added a few more for spice and entertainment. I can almost hear Aaron Neville singing now, and it bothers me on some fundamental level.


One Response to “ain’t for me…”

  1. dang…i really liked this one…

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