M.G. Poem by Kayt Krepcho

You call yourself a realist,
you romantic honey lipped f*ck.
I hate you and your wild
animal hair that crawls
languidly out of your non-
business t-shirt and your
beard that demands to be taken seriously.
You have too much faith in women’s
extra bra straps and masculine femininity
and my own boyish playfulness.
I’m bound to let you down
with my cold mouthed
cotton footed ways.
Your foul tongued compliments
slice deep into me and
make me feel wanted again.
Your mind is clouded by the perpetual
cycle of women you have screwed in hallways
of motels spanning the gray American countryside.
You dare to settle down with your sumptuous wife
and have a few darling children,
little animals evolving on a set schedule
that spirals tumultuously towards the apocalypse.
You live in your pretty house with
your creative artsy fartsy bullsh*t job
and pretend you still believe in something
other than corporate American
raping the people.
Everything you are and everything you have
is only a ticking clock waiting to
explode into dust.
You are one big joke to me.
I stop laughing to catch my breath
and my heart rattles inside my bony chest
because I realize that I am just like you.
You call yourself a realist,
you honey lipped, romantic f*ck.
I want to press my ear against your chest
and hear you tick.
Let’s explode into dust together.
I call myself a realist, too.