Take Aim

Talking is futile ’cause talking is cornering.
We reward petty behaviors with claps, showy ‘nd steady.
We like the good things but we like the bads as well.
Act as rebels, as modern day bohemians, and dandyists on Wednesdays.

We make our own caricatures because now we know ourselves and how can we not?
Stress-obsessed on the plink tobaccuzzi, and it bubbles at the hoops of our trunks.
If only we could love ourselves like we love our talkie box and our voyeur veneers.
Loving ourselves is cool but hating ourselves is cool, too. It’s normal now.

Because we are all aware about it, yes?

Love a good glam witch, love a good glam bitch,
Love a good lay, good friend, good fag, good chub,
Good Mister, good Miss. Hit and miss,
But they never do miss, diss this dismiss.

Watch and yearn. I ain’t there.

I heard you’ve been boastin’ ’bout how you made me cum– well, chill.
You’re just as good as my hand on a bored summer afternoon, how’s that for
Accomplishment of your life? Here’s a bronze sticker. Take it.
You weren’t ‘ven that good. Must be a good bang. Can’t ‘member.

(Busy breeding somebody else, somebody worthier.)

I your best lay? Must be why you refuse to let go of it.
What’s your story? What’s your version of it?
You adept emotional abuser but I’m the king of your bed and already left it.
Don’t want it. Don’t miss it. Not one bit. Busy trip and traipsin’ some city you ne’er been.

(Oo’, never been? Don’t give two shits if you doin’ some cheap bit. Busy. Don’t call.)

Latch and learn. I don’t care.

You a bum-ass memory I don’t ‘ven care keep on my brainy backburner.
Got no room for your ugly name with no land under it or your ugly games with no winning, over it.
Only half-write to make cash, pull in those dollars, that PHP, them visits and views.
You got something to tell on me, tell it on the ATM machine, homie.

(Or tell it to nobody. Ye pretty much told everything with ears, homie.)

Can’t touch what I have ’cause you’re some low stake belligerent.
Do-don’t want nothing to do with it. Do-don’t want nothing to do with you.
Go clean your room. Seen where you lay. Trash now ’cause you trash then. Ho now ’cause you ho then.
Desperate for memory of gods revealed ’twas living legend ‘tween my legs, then.

(Must have inadvertently changed your existence with some light momol, lol.)

Did I bring us all to the same page, yes?
Hope you’re in on the same page, yes?
Trunk blur your vision, yes, bes?

(But you never do miss, diss this dismiss much?)

I know I’m fire but stop dialing me up.
Have some self-respect, fool, bless, lest,
Google check ye incognitoin’ my Insta ‘nd Snaps.

(Hashtagged under trap. Trap at that you can’t touch.)

I make love to champagne now, sitting, squatting, counting gains now.
You’re so done so you take aim. Aim, but got no bullets in that brain, lame.
You how I got that two-money vision, mem’ry hazy but we overdue.
If you need to window shop, I’ll be at the gym, lifting with these biceps you lust for so much, tool.

Talking to you’s futile ’cause you talking’s you cornering.
Heard you’ve been bragging ‘nd boasting,
But, see here, sweetie,
Even if I were a goddamn trophy,
All the little that you have
Still ain’t ‘nough to ‘fford me.


OTHER POEMS BY ETHAN LESLEY CC | CLICK HERE TO VIEW ALL || Burgundahlia, poetry
 
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