I feel like declaring my love for bad girls. I passionately love strippers, porn stars, and rockers. I am aware that they only date drug-addled wife beaters, so I HAVE SOME WORK TO DO SINCE I AM NEITHER OF THESE. Sorry for the caps. I accidentally hit the caps lock. I’ve been know to do that since I type with my penis.
Here’s a poem:
Up the stairs you’ll find a place to unbuckle these shoesies
and when you do you’ll see my dog. His name is Buckley. Your name is Chad! Hang Chad Hang!
Never let them tell you than your brave endeavor to learn my secret was in vain.
I left you with strong goody(ie?) bag and the sun is mightly on the plain.
HAVe you no idea what this subtle yet growing noise is from the lair.
Geez, you reached this second landing, from this aforementioned parade of stairs.
It’s me and Beckie, the girl you paid for at the club last night. I told her I loved her and she spent the night
arguing the benefits of vegetarianism and a platonic relationship between lumps of penis in her mouth.
We have no relationship so don’t scream HEY!
Hey is for horses, so gallop down those stairs and ramble on to your white jacket. Super gay.
I want to take a nap. My life is spicy, you are a lonely nice guy with no feet of his own
just a leash and a wheel below allowing the powers of C’Mon AMERICA! to
steel you where they may.
Just a note they told me so
they’d make me under the mask in sight, a living spot of reduction, a date, a lapse
the dog indecisive. Beckie is hungry
your lamp is sweet. My life is lonely so I pepper it with flesh.
Fleeting and mysetrious
like the path of the tide when it runs away to an opulent sea
never to be recombined in that manner