G.R.o.Y.

Lame love hits hard
Hits true on the backs of trespassers,
Like a whip,
The body’s own mascara brush,
Painting with gentle strokes, a new face,
Whipping with furious brushes, a new lash, a shadow here or there,
The souvenirs of a modern love,
Your signature on my skin,
P.S. I DON’T love you…
Well, right back at ya’ you motherfucker,
I’m a sour, bitter boy,
I’m bitter for you,
I’m a soulless guttermonger,
I’m a holy Barfly,
I’m a proud Bukowski,
I’m the essays of Marquis de Sade’s take on masochism,
I’m not alright, not in the slightest,
I have one resolve, and one resolve only:
To cover your face on my back,
To erase, rewind, delete, block,
To start anew,
That’s three resolves…
But one ending in common:
Get
Rid
Of
You,
To rid the smell of you from my hair,
like the pestering lingering smoke from the night before,
To wash off your images from all my towels, you pagan Christ-woman,
I am forever your Magdalena, crying over you, forever your whore,
But never your man and that makes you mad,
Alas! Finally a smile on my face…