Down at Bar 52
You don’t want to hear it.
Quaint women’s things
lotioned into the air
vanilla perfume emanating
declaring her woman-ness
god that’s dull
but you’d fuck her in a heartbeat
the moment’s there
Shhh her opinion
Shhh her telephone number
just get down to it, a hate-fuck
pure hate
so much it nearly asphyxiates you
a rock star way to go
and then
that stupid mustache
screaming microphone feedback
entitlement
is distilled into one sentence
“I didn’t spend $50 on cocktails for a handshake”.
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