No, I don’t want to fucking dance. Do I look like I want to fucking dance?
She said she wants to feel butterflies in her stomach and I said I want to see lawn ornaments in my lawn, thousands of them; little gnomes fornicating, ceramic deer pissing, PC lawn jockeys with toupees, Budweiser signs half buried and blinking madly…
I want to run on electric shoes that never touch ground and throw fists like Jack Johnson from atop balconies overlooking gardens of sunken ideologues. I want her to tell me I’m distracted, to show me I’m bent with photographs arranged alphabetically on the hood of her VW. She’ll ask if there is a light? And I’ll respond that I fucking don’t know but I’ll pretend there is and she’ll fill her heart with empty deposit envelops in anticipation of my arrival--all those paper cuts and all that blood. Won’t someone stop by with a case of beer so I can grab my sorrow around the neck and drowned it? Blood and beer going down but never coming up.
3 comments:
You've described my dream yard to a "T". I'll just have to dream...
i hate gnomes.
i saw some thing on tv where this woman had an obsession with garden gnomes. she had a huge property and thousands of those things. it was so creepy.
Post a Comment