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,
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