My brother brought me Bhiman on a December
evening through his phone. Some video with
only seven thousand views, but he was big by now.
Maybe I can be like him. His songs hit so hard
like a smooth rock against a car window. Maybe
I can namedrop more and place picture perfect
similes in and stop rhyming; I’ll use alliteration for
a punch up.
People are beautiful to us when everything seems
to come easy for them. Even the pain. We think,
“look how hard, and still they go on,” and we admire.
Okay, I should bean a poor person’s fender
with a bat, see how they suffer so they can be beautiful
to me. But real songwriters don’t have to hurt someone
to produce. I spin ‘Moving to Brussels’ again.
How does one get inspiration to shake loose?
‘deep down he’s a sweetheart’ she sighs, as if.
hah, as if that’s supposed to excuse the cruel,
stupid surface. not to be harsh or anything, but,
yes, he’s a waste of space and air; in sperm form
he shoulda been spit into a sock. good gawd, what
a base emotion, hate. I feel like if I’ve loved enough
the meanness can be forgone. then I catch a glimpse
of that entitled profile he sports so well, and, swear to
whatever, I’m a pacifist, but a bat to his face and knuckles
and genitals seems too soft a punishment. okay.
have a nice day, sir.
Where’s the call? Hands are up in the air,
there’s a curious look in the eye,
and goddammit, of course I care. We are all
accustomed to being ignored. It’s old hat by now
dear, but still, when there’s a sting of cold,
and the sun sets, a little choice ignorance goes
a long way. Uh huh, sure I know; you’re used to
it, and I live the scenario. Were you aware there’s
a train in my backyard? Have you ever even seen my
dog? Why do I even try to give you the time of day?
Riddle me this, man: a slut in the east, a stud
in the west, and a bitch in the bed.
When all is said and done, think who led:
I think we could all stand to see a little blood.