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.
