deepundergroundpoetry.com
Bad black-and-white films with happy endings
I want to have fun with you,
like the cheery assholes in chick flicks.
And, I have bad-movie moments to spare
behind the cinema of my eyelids.
Let’s try out…
You. Me. Shower curtain. Baby oil. Trampoline.
When we finally catch each other
(after much cussing, and an
oddly-shaped sunburn on your back)
I want to be laughing against your lips
while you examine me for broken bones,
until I forget how to laugh.
Let’s try out…
That stupid beach-movie
where we’re frolicking like kids in the sea,
I push you in the water,
you pull the strings to my bikini top,
and give me a shit-eating grin when
I have to use your body as a cover.
Then you use my body as an altar.
And the scenes keep coming, keep coming, keep coming, and I’m lost for a moment…
Sitting next to an old woman on a park bench,
I obviously lean over, look down your pants and wink at her.
Standing with a kite in my hands at the end of some sunlit pier,
while you figure out if I’m ticklish, and where.
Lying under a tree in some park reading Shel Silverstein to each other,
until we realize we’re in an ant pile, we’re going to be in cold oatmeal baths, together for days, and how many things two bodies can do in a bathtub.
And I shake myself back, and want to try …
That time at Starbucks
when I told the barista
my name was Bubbles
when we ordered,
which made you roll your eyes.
Then I pulled you into the women’s
bathroom and showed you why
boys like girls named Bubbles;
used your shirt to wipe off my chin,
pushed you out of the stall,
and left you sort of stranded,
half-naked in a Starbucks
bathroom…
right when a mob came in.
When you asked me why later,
much later,
after you’d retaliated in spades,
and left me limp and mindless
I’d say, "It was fun, right? And
It makes a damn good story, doesn't it?”
It makes a damn good story.
We are an amazing story, baby.
I just wish the foreshadowing wasn’t such a
bitch
on such a perfect day.
like the cheery assholes in chick flicks.
And, I have bad-movie moments to spare
behind the cinema of my eyelids.
Let’s try out…
You. Me. Shower curtain. Baby oil. Trampoline.
When we finally catch each other
(after much cussing, and an
oddly-shaped sunburn on your back)
I want to be laughing against your lips
while you examine me for broken bones,
until I forget how to laugh.
Let’s try out…
That stupid beach-movie
where we’re frolicking like kids in the sea,
I push you in the water,
you pull the strings to my bikini top,
and give me a shit-eating grin when
I have to use your body as a cover.
Then you use my body as an altar.
And the scenes keep coming, keep coming, keep coming, and I’m lost for a moment…
Sitting next to an old woman on a park bench,
I obviously lean over, look down your pants and wink at her.
Standing with a kite in my hands at the end of some sunlit pier,
while you figure out if I’m ticklish, and where.
Lying under a tree in some park reading Shel Silverstein to each other,
until we realize we’re in an ant pile, we’re going to be in cold oatmeal baths, together for days, and how many things two bodies can do in a bathtub.
And I shake myself back, and want to try …
That time at Starbucks
when I told the barista
my name was Bubbles
when we ordered,
which made you roll your eyes.
Then I pulled you into the women’s
bathroom and showed you why
boys like girls named Bubbles;
used your shirt to wipe off my chin,
pushed you out of the stall,
and left you sort of stranded,
half-naked in a Starbucks
bathroom…
right when a mob came in.
When you asked me why later,
much later,
after you’d retaliated in spades,
and left me limp and mindless
I’d say, "It was fun, right? And
It makes a damn good story, doesn't it?”
It makes a damn good story.
We are an amazing story, baby.
I just wish the foreshadowing wasn’t such a
bitch
on such a perfect day.
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