deepundergroundpoetry.com
Bomb Damage
Don’t get us wrong
it’s not the pity we’re interested in,
never the eyes that gaze downwards
wondering how the legs work below
the out of whack plumbing
don’t pick us up
as the notch in your belt buckle
for your yearly dose of weird,
the memorable fetish fuck
to satisfy a ballpoint tick
on a scoresheet only you
are keeping
for the record
it’s not so much the throwing about
that shakes our proverbial shit—
we’ve spent all year
being lifted from chair to bed
but it’s when we’re there that counts
nobody wears blowjob eyes
like the girl that eternally sits,
not that you’ve ever noticed
how fucking glorious she can be
behind those glasses,
how she moans like she means it
because she fiercely does
be the last place on Earth
that reminds her she’s here
still relevant
fleeting and gorgeous
still worthy of being held
as you turn off the light.
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