Tuesday, December 6, 2011

Broke in Black


goddamn the boinging
synthesized accordions of gawth
escape from the 80’s and into my fridge
turing up their noses at my leftover lasagna and mango “frou frou” soda
gourmet goddesses lounge in bed in the dark braless
no one can see stretch marks if there’s no light
to reflect the glittering, torn swaths of scar tissue
my tongue is burnt by my impatience 
lasagna vs. microwave, the loser is my halitosis 
I wish Sam would stop sending me telegrams
this budget doesn’t support anything except for textbooks
and boots
and expeditions 
tunneling through mazes of pre-worn pre-owned pre-shat-in garments
end goal: black velvet anything
the pleasure of self-mockery is reserved for old women 
lounging on purple couches
chuckling at pictures in which their eyeliner runs away from the heat
I want to age gracefully
and be one of those classy dames 
where you can tell, just from one look
she has enjoyed her life
she probably shelled out the cash and saw Peter Murphy
before the old bat finally keeled over
instead of ho-humming back and forth, until it was too late
and I was broke anyway

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