Chronic Doorman
I am the chronic doorman lapchild that makes success as improbable as trout lice. I walk into the room like a greasy high five and people immediately want to wash their hands. They have their beard theory ready as I throw the net of my calendar out over the month, fishing for dates. I cut a fine figure dressed in my barbeque smock and carrying my pink axe. I feel like a Turkish jackalope. The sadness in my eyes is becoming permanent but I’m fighting it. I want to be mean, efficient, and ready to go but I end up being a ripoff artist with swollen, tattooed hands. I’m a bearded, poolside drink girl getting jug burn.
You are my mile highness. When you left without saying goodbye to me, I knew it was love. You’re a beautiful day in the poor part of town and your sunshine is fermenting my mind. When you walk across the room, the men’s heads track you like sunflowers. You are a radium rose shining brightly in the darkness. There have been too many classic rock songs, topless vampires, and all-day buffets in my boot ransom life. You are a reminder that aspirations are necessary.
Replace my collarbones with your wishbones. Show me that fingers have no sense of smell. Ignore my unpheromones and touch me. Let the identical twins of Trashy Outskirts and Dusty Suburbs become a smooth city under your hands. We can become the two-headed lama. I’ll be the moth. You be the big pink sea snail. Call me Misty Spoon. Sure, my pillows are stuffed with money but I still can’t sleep. Let’s let dreams rent out smiles for a while. Come closer.
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You are my mile highness. When you left without saying goodbye to me, I knew it was love. You’re a beautiful day in the poor part of town and your sunshine is fermenting my mind. When you walk across the room, the men’s heads track you like sunflowers. You are a radium rose shining brightly in the darkness. There have been too many classic rock songs, topless vampires, and all-day buffets in my boot ransom life. You are a reminder that aspirations are necessary.
Replace my collarbones with your wishbones. Show me that fingers have no sense of smell. Ignore my unpheromones and touch me. Let the identical twins of Trashy Outskirts and Dusty Suburbs become a smooth city under your hands. We can become the two-headed lama. I’ll be the moth. You be the big pink sea snail. Call me Misty Spoon. Sure, my pillows are stuffed with money but I still can’t sleep. Let’s let dreams rent out smiles for a while. Come closer.
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