Meet me in the back room
with your dick out.
Meet me in the thick of the thicket,
prick in hand,
money in your mouth.
Meet me in the briar patch.
Meet me by the septic tank.
Meet me in the graveyard,
behind the crypt,
in the park,
at night,
by the river
at a truck stop.
Show me what you want
and get to the point,
Because it’s always been the same old thing,
And I haven’t got a lot of time.
Don’t tell me your name.
Don’t ask for my number.
I’ll call you when I need you,
and I need you now.
Unless someone else is closer,
or more willing
to expose themselves
to the mountain of self hatred
that I am here to unleash
and unload upon
the nearest passing stranger.
Meet me in the men’s room.
Meet me over a glass pipe.
Bend my ass over the toilet,
and pound it full of emptiness,
loneliness,
guilt,
shame,
harm,
and please, oh please!
Give me your disease!
Carry me in your hairy arms,
drop me over the precipice of oblivion,
and leave me there to fall.
To hit the hard cold ground.
Let the angels of decay
devour my rotting flesh,
while singing eerie hymns.
Let the requiem for my disappointment
in all things bright and beautiful
be a solemn reminder
for the clean up crew
that comes to purify the ground
of my toxic residue.
This is my legacy.
Let this despair,
this self destruction
this fornication
and desecration of who I could have been,
spell out my grief,
and define the mutilation of a soul
denied of its sacred connection to beauty,
compassion,
strength,
innocence,
and hope.
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