All of them Sunday-brunching, mother-fucking
Good looking two-day-old hair gel,
Somehow holding,
Drawing attention from your stretched out clothes,
you got screwed up eyes,
sitting bleary in your face
I'm entitled to a little more.
I neeeed the coffee, Am I right, tell me about it.
Sheeeit.
Poetry. Nice. I totally get the two day old hair gel thing. That's me during midterms.
ReplyDeleteThis left me wondering what it'd be like to have Sunday brunch with Clay Davis.
Was this inspired by a restaurant experience? I'm very curious why the speaker is entitled to a little more from their dishevelled brunch companion.
Good stuff, Dave! Keep the poetry coming.
I have a great aunt who says "She I. T." Shee Eye Tee. I love creativity in cursing.
ReplyDeleteI like this poem a lot. Especially "I neeeed the coffee," and "Sunday-brunching."
Poetry that's not sacrosanct is the kind that reaches me, generally. There are enough beautiful, careful poems. There are enough poetry-readers wrapped in blankets with their cups of tea, calming their minds like meditators, slowly taking in every precious word. I like poems with bruises.
-s$s
Wazzy:
ReplyDeleteThanks for the encouragement. It was in fact inspired by several restaurant experiences, or more precisely by what it feels like to see people hung over on a Sunday morning. There was always a strange sort of pleasure that they seemed to take in being hung over, could never really pin it down.
$:
I appreciate the sentiment. I like the 'bruises' in poetry also, there is always something sort of 'right now' about it. Like a specific idea spewed out and couldn't be taken back. Not that you always want to take it back.
I think they take pleasure from it because they consider surviving the experience to be some sort of self-fulfilling conquest. Like it's a progression of self. When really it's quite the opposite.
ReplyDelete