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born on easter sunday.

by Eli Skipp

Thanks to you I can talk heavy metal.
I'm watching your hair fall mutilated from your skull and thinking
You're too old but I appreciate bass rhythms.
Too old, and bruised like Hell.

I was born on Easter this year,
Eighteen and thanks to you a stranger buys me a drink.
We chat noise and people, this stranger and I,
We chat venues, pits, and sound quality.

That Sunday was also the two year anniversary of the first time I had sex,
For serious.
It was performed mostly naked and awkward
Next door to a church.
I've had sex with a number of better looking men since then,
But a part of me still loves you.

I don't get home until four a.m. driving
For the first time one hundred miles per hour down I-95.
The way I define myself by highways,
And the men who ask for my number at clubs.

More than anything I want to call it quits
And start over.
Thanks to you this birthday means a descent into
South Miami head-banger culture.

But I wish it meant a fall into the sea.


Author's Note: i'm really sorry. this one is terrible.

Posted on 04/09/2007
Copyright © 2019 Eli Skipp

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Coleman Demiurge on 04/10/07 at 02:12 PM

A perspective of Life - very nice; I like this very much, particularly the last five lines.

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