11-17-2010, 06:11 AM
Tall and blond, my Aryan prince,
two legs like beanstalks reaching
the throne of his buttocks.
Leaning over my chilli supper,
American "fries" and garlic bread.
Self-pity, as warm and familiar
as an Agatha Christie novel,
settles on my stomach like indigestion,
that classic pain which all depressives know.
Nobody wants to fuck a fatty,
especially not cute Russian boys.
Anne Sexton, I love ya, but baby
you were wrong. When you wrote that
"No one's alone," you lied. Though
maybe without intention.
two legs like beanstalks reaching
the throne of his buttocks.
Leaning over my chilli supper,
American "fries" and garlic bread.
Self-pity, as warm and familiar
as an Agatha Christie novel,
settles on my stomach like indigestion,
that classic pain which all depressives know.
Nobody wants to fuck a fatty,
especially not cute Russian boys.
Anne Sexton, I love ya, but baby
you were wrong. When you wrote that
"No one's alone," you lied. Though
maybe without intention.
"We believe that we invent symbols. The truth is that they invent us; we are their creatures, shaped by their hard, defining edges." - Gene Wolfe