mascara made me feel fucked.
the #metoo movement gave me the shivers.
just a date and some corn.
I already knew she was a cute slut
because she had banged
like ten of my comedy friends
and two of my poetry friends
and one of my regular friends.
It's okay,
she had the vibe I like.
That hipster shit,
boasting about reading books
we don't read.
Even I am a victim of that shit.
Victor is a bad word in this poem.
Her lips were like a cabin fireplace,
but it did not burn for me.
I wish I would've made her split the bill.
She was great, but it was obvious with us.
I know the exact guy she wants to take her.
He has a better beard than me.
He also listens to Arcade Fire,
but wears tinier shoes,
and knows all the bartenders at Enid's,
while following politics and potting plants.
It's okay, even the sun fades.
She sucks and is searching for something else.
I don't blame her for not choosing to waste time with me.
I wish I would've got a blow job,
but at least I got to kiss those celery lips.
While the day stays
and McCarren Park calls,
she will be a female friend
that I give a good nod
and a drunk text to.