THE CAKE IS A LIE

What are you going to do without me when you get to LA?
In what shithole with what with shit people will you even stay?
Squat in some barren room
battering some barren womb.
Some defect insect girl that will no doubt be your doom.

 (She’ll kill you if you cum too soon).

Some floozy who leads you down the dark path.
Some nihilist with a bad imagination.
She won’t send you poetry or positive affirmations.
Some cracked out wannabe actress whose only means of getting wrecked
are chasing vodka with uppers on borrowed yacht decks
and starving her weary, pretty little body halfway to death.

(She’ll give you AIDS).

I’ll give you baby sonnets wrapped in baby bonnets.
We’ll make love for days.
 When we’re finally done, I’ll throw you a parade
 full of rainbow streamers and haiku and vegan cake.
Don’t fucking go to LA.

(She’ll kill you with her lies).

Floozy disguised as future wife
will most certainly be your demise.
LA ladies ALWAYS lie.
Just look at her perfectly designed plastic chest
stuffed inside her knock off design whore slut dress
face caked with ugly beige to hide her fucking ugly mess.

(She can’t even look you in the eye).

Fuck LA.
Stay. Just stay.
Your stuffs all here anyway.

And me. I’m here too.
Practicing haiku
for your welcome back soiree
when she’s too much and you just have to leave
to retrieve your stuff from storage and come see patient little me.

(She’ll never let you leave).

Not like me.
I’ll let you leave then leave you be.
Just remember, my love, my light, my darling sweetie.

In LA, you’ll never find a girl as genuine, as loving, as tender/sweet or caring as me.
In LA, no one will do your laundry, cook your lunch, or write you poetry.
In LA, you’ll starve for my warm empathy. All the girls look like night, you’ll have no girl to save the day.
In LA, where will you even stay? Who will you even be?

In LA, you will be free.

Fuck LA.
Free me.

Sober bar hopper to the bar: you are not as charming as you think you are.

Striped collars, boxing scars, gorillas costumed in silk ties just egging each other on with their
come-fight-me eyes. Ladies got their best cum-fuck-mes on.
Heels and lashes painted black to match
the absence of color that spins together the fabric of their heartless heart threads.
Wear their best organic cotton scarves tight around their necks and breasts
even when it’s unbearably hot outside.
(They must be freezing inside to wear so many clothes, a cavernous soul must get awfully cold. Best not to go explore it alone.)
Watch them finger it all night. Must be cutting off their brain’s blood supply; their laughter is so loud and wild. Their smiles seem wider with each drink they try. Even the shyest girls seem over-sexualized.  
Sauntering more casually up to every boy with a bulge. Perfect pout dares to mouth “Well, what you about?”
The oxygen is lacking; their words and morals seem a little more loose.
Each drink they sip removes some clothes but tightens round their thoughts and trepidations
 like a brand –new never worn noose.
(I bet you like to tie them to the bed post when you get em home like a bitch you’re right to own. An outside dog who only comes inside when she’s good for an occasional midnight bone).

Pleasantries and forced repetition of shaking hands and liquid wisdom.  Swapping shorts, retorts and weather reports.  Brazen boys and girls brave the summer evening drizzle to deny their lungs a clean air supply. The entrance is dotted with flickering lights
 and choking first- timers who just thought they should try.
“I only smoke when I drink; it’s not even a thing, I can stop anytime.”
(Right, I only talk when I lie, it’s perfectly fine.)

They’re real juiced up now. Dancing to the sound of their own libidos on the prowl,
the only noise heard is inane chatter screaming above some awful crackle from the static
on the low tier speakers.
Can’t even hear the bass no more.
Just hear the clicking of plastic pumps on the linoleum floor racing to the bathroom to empty their guts
so they can return to their medicine and guzzle some more. The unfortunates  get left on the bathroom floor  holding their stomachs and dignity with quivering fingers. Eyes barely open, they can’t see clearly. Just feel their way over the cool tile to the toilet when needed.  Rinse and repeat it.
They’ll  be collected at the end; an unwanted toy leftover from a  local yard sale.
We’ll try again next weekend: someone’s gotta want this  ol’ Raggedy Ann, shes only been played with  but a couple of times.
(At least that’s what she’s screaming every time she cries.)

Let’s get the hell outta here. 
Who called the cab?  Let’s walk then. But I got the tab. Fuck off then.
There’s no one in charge, no one to steer.  Cattle needs cowboys to herd them back home
lest they go wandering and  get stuck in the field all alone.
Figuratively speaking, there’s always a couple loose deer. Pretty fawns waiting to be found 
underneath the street signs and lights. Doe-eyes dimmed down, their brights are out
and they look like they are dying inside. Anxiously waiting for a gentleman with a spare seat in his ride
to offer his coat and a dark place to hide til the morning sheds light on all good girls’ mistakes;
all good girls just dying to be bad guys’ good wives.
(They’ll settle instead for listening to all bad guys’ great lies.)

“What’d you say? “
“Oh, nothing man, just that you’re a faggot ass pussy with a limp fern for a dick. You can only get laid by your hand.”
And here come the words.
The nasty, icky words that stick to your bones when you’re back at home trying to curl up and sleep.  Eating your brain, those words creep into your dreams, manifest the ugliest ghouls, they wake you from your blissful drool. Feels like your suffocating to death, you’re dying to breathe.
Throw off your sheets, hurl your feelings into the nearest bowl.  Words that you swallowed
just a couple hours ago with your big cup of manhood now makes your stomach turn in half
like a huge, hungry mouth just voraciously, happily eating itself.
(Bet you wish you could eat your words when you said, “Watch this.” You thought you could drink with the boys, now, go spew those words out.)

“Yeah, fuck off, that there’s my girl. She said she wants a man not a dyke to take her home tonight.”
Here comes the fight.
“Naw, man, fuck you, she said it was like this: she wants a guy with a thick wallet and an ever thicker dick.”
Here come the fists.
 Clenched, but for how long? These brothers are tempted to pull out their balls just to show one another how bad they can fuck.

Last call!

Thank God and common decent law that protect the barbarians from the bar.
No one can breathe in those stalls. They’re all crap-covered hogs
lined up to suck from capitalism’s most insidious trough.
Liquid soma sprinkled over civilization to keep the thinkers in their coma.  
Up grows a garden of sleepwalkers in sweaters and suits. An aroma
of shit and hops, these shitshows hop back to their studio apartments and tiny rooms
in their shared  summer houses.  Lubed up on life, they wriggle out of their suits and sweaters full of sweat and hard-earned strife to slip into something more comfortable, less binding, less costume, less tight. Those girls remove their scarves.
 Except, of course, for the ones that have been dragged from the bar, bribed with breakfast in bed,
they choke on that cotton before they gag on some lucky dick’s head.
And the women all alone are blurrily punching numbers they used to know into their phone.
They don’t want to go home.  They send an ask to the atmosphere, the last of the patient deer.
Begging to be hunted. Begging to be found and surrounded. Desperately hoping to be pounced on and mounted.
(They’ll never be found, no meat is ever thrown to the hungriest hounds. Mangy mutts breed with hoodrats, mangy mutts die in the pound.)

Weekend warriors  ready to die for their war. They name their demon freedom and they toast it every night.  Like boozed up vampires, they  just wait for the cover of dark to rapaciously suck every tumbler dry. Gobble their poison like a fat boy on Fourth of July
who snuck back inside for the last of Momma’s homemade apple pie.
(The apples are sour and soaked in Vodka. Even better for us sleepwalking monsters, anything nutritious is for imposters. They like to stay living. We like to stay awful.)

It’s not even a thing, they can quit anytime.

I knew I was being mean, a pure cunt, a true bitch, even before I was mean. When it happens, I can’t stop. I set out to destroy my toy, some unsuspecting boy, whoever it is that happens to be the unfortunate recipient of my snark. My bite is actually much harder than my bark. The words effortlessly drip from my two-forked tongue. My eyes narrow into tiny slits. Lids retire to hide the selfless soul that once was.

He never deserved it.  They never do. I’m clever. They’re simple. I simply sit and observe, listen to their subconscious ooze out of their brain riddled with awkward pauses as they find themselves becoming self-aware in front of my refrain and filling my ears with ammo for future battles.  Annoying psycho-babble.  I comfort, I coo, I set out to soothe. A snake in the grass hiding her rattle.  Then, I pounce on my prey, but only when provoked or confronted with my own weakness.  I fancy myself a lioness, but I am more like an indolent, house cat; only fierce when forced or I have some small reward to reap. I don’t do it to survive, I do it because sunning myself in the window has gotten boring and I need a meek mouse to fuck with. Live game to pass the time.  A poacher gone wild on human safari.

So I watch: I watch you eat, I watch you play, I watch you dance across the kitchen floor and from your pack, I watch you stray. Then I approach, Cheshire cat smile.  Fur glued to the scales of a crocodile.

 “Nice shoes.”

 “You too.”

Next move.

“Light?”

A smile. He hands me the lighter. Rodents aren’t naturally good fighters.

We go outside to shoot the shit. I sit down. I memorize your boring babble so I can later shoot that boring shit down. We talk politics. We talk religion. We talk race and gay rights and the fucked up justice system. We tango with taboo until our wants win and our tongues start to tangle. We are animals at the zoo stripped from our jungle. Kitties caged in desire and misdirected ire. If we’re not careful our misguided passion could set the whole town on fire.

But it doesn’t.

Back to your place. I live in a gutter. You live in your lust and a shared house and a life without structure. I’m here to comfort.  Just lie on the bed and let me play therapist and hooker. I can be both; I’m a woman for starters. Start with your deepest fears, your childhood dreams, and your most recent remorse.  I am your preacher. This is confession. The bed is our church, you’re dying of thirst. Have a drink of my unholy water. Come over here. I know that it hurts.

This whole thing is rehearsed. Same story, different stage. Each guy keeps getting worse.  A bloke with no name and a penchant for blubbering. I get off on their troubles; a witch brewing concoctions that will inevitably burst every bubble.  A hopeless endeavor but they keep playing lover. And, I, their hovering whore sent to uncover their truths and their lies and twist all their words in my selfless reprise.

Tell me your story.

I fucking love when they cry.

It’s power I consume.  Like a starving drug addict dead set on a fix, any prick will do if it helps bring my kicks. You bring the sickness, I’ll bring the cure.  A pretty crafty seamstress can fix any scar. A temporary solution to a permanent hurt. My love is polished and pure. I am polished and pure. I possess no flaws. I’ll hold you all night just keep calling it love.

And then.

I fumble.  The game fucking flips and I lose my shit. Some psychobabble Freudian slip slips from my lips after too much of your whining. I lose my wits after most of your weed and about all of my wine.  My stained purple mouth spouts some imperfections I have been hiding behind perfect meter and unrivaled timing. Like how I hate and use men for money and a bed, in fact, I think I’m a love addict. It’s just some fucked up game I play to feel safe. And I’m drunk all the time and I can’t remember the last time I didn’t wake up with terrible regret in my head. I’m definitely a drug addict. Some bullshit I never meant to tell anyone.  You look shocked and confused, your ego is bruised. You say, am I being used?

  A shot hits the lion, the cat has been stunned by your word tranquilizer.  You question my motives . What is this a trial? I’m here to serve you. There is no denial. You question my habits, my future, my plans. You question my lies.

And that’s when I’m mean.

Spit back what you said before you remember I’m human. Carving your words in your face with a dull razorblade.  Like how you told me you were molested by your uncle at eleven. Well, that’s why you’re a faggot and no women want you. Or the time you smoked crack just to try it. That makes you a crackhead, you’re a gay fucking crack addict who likes men to fondle your dick. God, you’re fucking sick.

Cuz that’s who I am and that’s what I do. Fuck you and love you and heal all your wounds just to bite at the cuts with my bloody, sharp tooth. I’m a monster, motherfucker, and I hate men the most. They’re my favorite to hunt, my favorite to eat, and my favorite carcass to boast. It’s you that I loathe. I possess no flaws. I only came here to serve.  How dare you rebuke me after I bore your cross?

But I’m still charming. I’m a woman remember. I’ll disarm you. I’ll cry now. How could you? After all that I’ve done? I’m sobbing into my wine glass. The game changes. Well of course that it does. I have breasts, and when I heave, my cleavage gets huge. You want to bury your face into my wet bosom. Of course you do, you’re a pathetic fucking dude.

You’re crying again. You’re sorry? Fuck you. You’re sorry alright. A sorry fucked up son of a bitch with a sorry fucked up life. I only came here to serve, I possess no flaws. How dare you accuse me of anything unclean? Yes, I can be mean. I mean it when I say you’ll never see me again. You better believe that I’m leaving. How dare you? How dare you?

My phone won’t stop ringing but I’m not going back. I have more traps to set, more rats to catch. Want to clean up the sewers like a good little cat. Lick the blood off my paws in time for my afternoon nap.  They don’t deserve it but what can I do? I’m such a good huntress and healer of wounds. I destroy and I salvage all in one swoop.

If there is a God, I think I’m his personal reaper. Raping the feelings of men that deserve to be eaten. I haven’t found a man yet cunning enough to beat me.  And all my lovers will read this will think that I don’t mean it. But you’re all being slowfucked by a monster with no feeling. I mean it, my love, it’s better to believe it.

I’m an angel, I possess no flaws, I was sent here by God.

lightsandsparks:

I carry so much of you in my shoulders, there’s no walk I’ll ever walk the same

Sober bar hopper to the bar:

you are not as charming as you think you are.

Sleeping alone is for octopi.

I want
You and I
YOU

Or else

I should go to the bottom of the sea
Live free
With the other cephalopods.
Letting their heads direct their feet
Over the ocean floor
Before they can stop and think
What good is it for?

Driven by impulse
And sleeping alone

Or else

I let my impulse drive me
And sleep with whiskey instead.
Bottles filling my bed.
Intoxicant driving my head.
Instead of my feet
Like the cephs under the sea

Why get somewhere
When I can stay here
And fill my bed
With whiskey instead?

Knock knock.

 Who’s that?

Oh, hey, it’s you. How’s it going, how you been?  Yeah, I’ve seen you around.
 I haven’t seen you in a bit but I’ve seen you round town. Did you just move in?
Yeah, me too. I had to get out and get on my own cuz of my bad-ass cat.
Haha, yeah, she just kept pissing on the plants and pissing off my friends.

Anyway, what’s good? What’s up anyhow?

A broom? Oh, yeah, I got you, of course, no doubt. For real, I don’t even sweep so I don’t need it back.
I got other stuff too, things you can borrow. Not really sure what, but if you need stuff, just holler.

Thanks, oh, you like this? This here St. Germain. They’ve got a pretty nice sound. I’m getting pretty heavy into that real mellow bow-wow that only real soul artists know bout.
Good horn, nice trumpet, real good bass. It’s real laid back, depends on your taste, some might say.

Yeah, sure see ya later. Just bring it back whenever. And if I’m not here, just leave it outside. I’ll get it whenever, I never sweep, I don’t even mind.

You know…I’m always writing. Pretty much all the time. Most mornings, and well yeah, most nights.
But I could always use a distraction so if you’d like to stop by. That’d be fine.
That’d be nice. I mean, that’d be cool. I could teach you more things about St. Germain,  play you some other cool electro soul tunes. You like hip hop right? Yeah, I like hip hop too. Their flow is so cool.
When I write, I put on Kweli  and the rhymes write themselves. I don’t even think, it just flows out myself.

So, yeah, come by, anytime when I’m here. I’m always writing, but I mean, I’m always up and I’m pretty much always around.

Yeah, I’ll see you around.

And a writer she shall stay.