Don’t Want Your Good Ol’ Days

Testosterone tainted thrusts
of masculine need,
cumming sloppily all over
my social feed,
falling asleep on top of me,
begging me to refrain, stay
restrained by a house-wife chain
to the kitchen, laundry,
iron bed frame,
a cute floral skirt brushing my calves;
while you’re sweating over a desk,
slapping your secretary’s ass,
her mind foggy uncertainty—
pounded like meat,
blood down her knees,
salty hand over pink mouth
muffling her say—
yet you groan and fuck away
her dignity,
while my hips sashay
vacuuming dreams away
clumps of hair, clogging the hose
ripped from my head
in drunken repose
slipped, like my sanity
hands cemented to a martini
sweating fear daintily.
“Honey, I’m home”—
where I’ll always be.
You smell like success,
money and forced sex.
I’ll smell of dish soap
vodka-coated disappointment—
until my body is buried
six feet deep,
worms far better company.
Close weary eyes
and dream, not worried
insatiable thrusting
will invade my peace;
pieces of me decomposing
while you present a gaudy ring
to a secretary impregnated
with your progeny,
a little girl, sugar and spice
until she grows saucy,
raped by Big Brother’s eye.
Withered, you wonder why
she does not crave
the Good ‘Ol Days,
the nuclear family,
her mother’s legacy—
boiling rage barely sated
in a drunken haze
of desire unfulfilled
and promise laid waste.

Photo Credit: simpleinsomnia Flickr via Compfight cc


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