5 Jun 2009

boyfriend

Boyfriend is the worst word in the English language.
It makes you sick and hardened
to nothing - you'd be better off freebasing.

Boyfriend is the worst word in the English language.
The misnomer sounds just right, soft
sweat, endorphins, adrenalin.

Boyfriend is the worst word in the English language.
The cutesy acronym is even worse.

You haven't learned a thing, schoolboy
skipping classes for drugs and rehab hugs.

Last night, buddy nearly bagged jailbait
but it happens all the time.
Jailbait beats masturbate
boyfriend got in the way.
Another "nearly" day
happens all the time.

You can't be boyfriend, schoolboy.
You can't live up to that.
Girl is a dirty word
makes you unclean, but holy.
Mendelian genetics.

Jailbait's a freebird
but crack hos slip through the cracks.

A ho is not a whore
isn't gaudy, after money
but always high/low
dreaming of blow
on a walk through the woods.

Merit-based euphoria
is as bad as a dirty coke high.
You don't want to live up to this
don't want to live down to that.

"You're an alpha, in your own way," Rich said.
I'd buy that for a dollar - any more
and I'd need to borrow.

Nobody wants your poetry
but there's always a market for memoirs.
For that you must be hardcore - do more.
No doubt, Nic Sheff can rap like Ginsberg
but that's between him and his Void.

Heed E.T. and be good.
Heed Bill and Ted and be excellent to each other.
But don't expect that to end the malaise.
For that you must kick zoloft
and live in the woods for four years, schoolboy
think back to the cubscout gymnasium.

Schoolboy's talking to himself at recess class
inventing scenarios for others to play:
there's no jails for the ones who've found the key.

Lifer/player in the jailhouse playhouse production
is hallucinating harsh satori.
He thinks it's something
balance? Justice? Beauty?
Whatever floats your starship
on your jailhouse tank trip.
I dunno what I'd do to pass the time.
You were bait and switched
now you masturbate, with a forearm stitch
and humouring you makes me feel right and mighty
for four seconds.

You jack off into a tissue, so
you're on par with Phil Leotardo.
Soprano wouldn't know how to say no
to gay sex, after serving twenty-two
cause "what ya gonna do?"
but he didn't serve long enough to know that.
We never serve what we deserve.

There is hope, you hear
on an interstellar broadcast:
in deep Vegan orbit, the old machine
that anonymous transmitter
still sticks to his story
like an A/A old-timer, calm
with the veneer of spirituality
which is better than the real thing.

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