47 Minutes Late

Shiiiiiiiiit, I am WELL late tonight. Sozzer, it's all down to my hectic social calendar. Await no longer. Here is a poem about lost love and lost friendship and live political views.

NaPoWriMo Day 3!

In the Aftermath of Whixley Burbage

Today I saw a dog posing for a photograph; Whixley Burbage, an old friend of mine. We used to snort coke together and cruise around in his Maserati, looking for bitches. How our times have changed.

I remember the days we did everything in a circle. Have you any idea how difficult it is to loop water? Whixley was testing me, that bastard. Some days he wore only a cummerbund, just to prove his point.

Once, he said to me, “If a pony belongs to a gypsy and the gypsy is always laughing, does the pony really exist?” Then he bit into a sweet potato and said, “I can has?” That’s when I knew things had gone too far.

“Whixley,” I said. “Dude, why you gotta act so loco all the time? Boi gotta eat, man, I know that, but this a poison too far.” Whixley laughed and said, “Bitches be crazy.” We never saw one another again.

Until this morning that is; this newly-wed-excitement of a morning. He was so different. He was dressed as a racist trying to blend in with the rest of society. Did you know that racists wear jeans now?

Whixley was always very left wing. “When I say ‘OVERTHROW’, you say ‘A DEEPLY CORRUPT SYSTEM OF OFFENSIVE FINANCIAL OPPRESSION!’” is what would chant in clubs when the beat was right.

Oh Whixley; you’re a twatbag. You broke my heart and called it progress. I would have cradled you. I would have taken you in my arms and listened to your sadness like it was a song. Like it was something that mattered.

Walking away from the scene I feel like an unseen extra in a movie, who is only there to make the leads feel like they’re really living it all. I touch my hair and somebody calls a cut. I can’t even get that right anymore.