Platitudes

There are three mice on the head of the needle

and I just baked a pie with the apple of my eyes.

Now, I’ll finger paint with Wednesday’s ashes,

but who knows where she is,

running wild, ferral,

naked,

happy.

The illegals are being hauled in, but who’s laughing now?

It’s all about free style, but who cares anyway?

When it comes down to it,

I lie awake at night and dream of her

flat stomach and her

long legs.
I joke, I jest, I ironize,

I ‘sarcasmize.’

She be a bitch, she be a whore, sure.

But I fell for her and ended up splattered

on the pavement of her teflon heart.

It could be worse, sure,

but it could also be better.

I’m a rat with a stake through its innards,

I’m a weasel who drowned in an over-chlorinated California pool.

It’s all good.

In my head, she’s turning tricks

and shooting up like there’s no tomorrow.

But bohužel she’s not,

she’s happy,

leading a clean life with just the right amount of cocks.

That’s good.

I stare at the portrait she painted for me

and I dream of a stranger’s hands running over her body

and giving her the pleasure I could not provide.

That’s good.

But still: fuck her.