Kurt Waits

He wishes he was Kurt
But with Tom’s enchanting voice and wit.
His mouth is a waterfall of
Complicated, big worded, limp flowing sentences
Splashing in your face and bathing your ears
Resembling much to the way
urine spills from a drunkard’s dick
on the damp streets of your home town at 4 A.M
Criticizing his past relationships
Calling the girls sluts, toys immature
But he always calls his mother to ask
What they’re having for dinner.
Because his manhood and independency
Go as far as living alone.
He says nothing
But the look on his face
Is like he recites Socrates or the highest of philosophy
Trying to convince himself he’s saying something of importance
He analyzes love and relationships like a soup recipe
And knows everything about politics and anarchy and glass bottles
By the bench of your local square.
He can talk for hours about everything.
He’s hurt, but deep down he thinks he’s the Messiah,
So being hurt is nothing but what he should be.
I bet if asked when drunk, he’d tell you that
He doesn’t bleed.