Tuesday is our day of rest,
and I'll be dammed
if we're going to let that be ruined
by your faith,
in the notion that one person is not enough
to knock down your fears of sleeping alone.

Why don't you just marry the Mormons from 3H?

Their orgies will top my winning smile
every single time.

And that would be the messianic 'we';
the pronoun that pronounces a smile
to frame a portrait in mime?

Did I hear that right?

I can take the myriad of stares
that shift your eyes to eulogize
the vices of love, a shimmer of blind lament
that's wasted on the virtuous.

But if lust is the chicken that came home
to rut, then love is the egg
that scrambled my faith, and I can't see
there's a whole lot riding on the result.

Well, Hell’s bells,
why didn’t you tell me from the start
that we are nothing but fantastic gestures
of kindness. Terrible motions
that trouble our friends, annoy the spirits
and guarantee we’ll be together for thirty more years.

I think that’s what you’re trying to tell me.
I’m only half-listening,
because you’re only trying to get the skin
off my back with about half of your usual enthusiasm.

I’ve also got the TV on,
and I really think George C. Scott
is going to run away with Diana Rigg this time.

Sweetheart,
it’s not that I’m unhappy.
It’s just that I’d rather see us accept old age
before we actually get there.

We’re not dramatic teenagers anymore,
and people are starting to stare.

Or maybe they're busy shooting each other
to pay for the upgrade
from hospital to network;
staring at walls, dancing
round those fatal floors.

Meamwhile, we are gaining morals
and losing morale with every passing option
sold off to the silent majority
screaming democracy and breeding
provincial minorities that roll their eyes
at compromise.

For them it's just business, as usual
but we can't afford to buy time, or spend
our Mondays window-smashing. It pains me
to say it, but you are far from cost-effective
and I like to conduct my affairs
with economies of scale in mind.

I’m cost-effective plenty,
you stupid, half-drunk, all-gorgeous,
all-kinds-of-unhinged broad
from the Island of Transferred Souls.

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.

Blame the old woman in 5G.
She does this non-stop Popeye impression,
and uses it to scream the headlines of the day.

Who the hell gave her a computer?
Who the hell is even aware she’s alive?

I ask too many questions. You don’t.

You assume the water-tower is half-empty,
and that the cops will never figure out
what you said to make that friend of mine cry,
and drive her car right through the only florist I know,
who still has a pure heart.

You wouldn’t know morals,
if they mounted you from behind
and sang your favorite Leonard Cohen song
in your perfect ears.

Don’t take that the wrong way.
Sweetheart. Red-light-of-my-life.

You know, when that tongue's not tied
it sure is spiked -- I've had death-threats
less intimidating than your back-handed compliments.
Just because you give good tail
there's no excuse for losing your head.

How many weeks have we been living
one year at a time?

Take it from me, I have answers
to which you'll never find
incredible questions; the woman in 5G?
Her son stole that laptop from a pole dancer
working the Arctic 24/7 scene. He prefers
to stay out of touch that way, since
the luxury cruise off the coast
of Somalia, and her subsequent
incontinence.

It's better this way; insomniacs sleep
on a need to be ignorant basis.

If it wasn't for that arid humour
that has me wetting myself
before you lay a finger on me
I'd be on the next caravan to Carnal City
kicking up a desert storm.

Besides, you are the one eccentric constant
in my otherwise mundane chaos.
And who will be there for you
to take out your frustrations on
once I'm impaled on your prurient pedestal?

Jane Russell is coming back from the dead,
and assuming Bob Mitchum isn’t right behind her,
I might just give her a ring instead.

I kid. I love. I drink, watch and reference
the same five movies, no one under forty
cares to remember.

Remember,
when I fed those stray cats you stole,
While you were out realizing
that women can be just as bad in bed as men?

I think that speaks volumes,
but I’m notorious for grasping at chewed-up bendy straws,
so it’s your call
and your fantastic, low-cut wardrobe
for all apologetic occasions.

What can I say?

It’ll be twenty years at half-mast before long.

You say it better than I ever could, anyway.

I don’t mind,
because sometimes it makes me brilliant by default,
and because I firmly believe
that the gashes on the back of my head build character.

Like shoveling snow for a bloody August dance-a-thon.

10/30/2011

Author's Note: Reviving mortal combat with the ultimate character assassin; we're alive, so I guess that leaves all possibilities wide open...

Posted on 10/30/2011
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