Tuesday, December 17, 2013

poem of the day 12.17.13

youthful transgressions of our forefather’s spawn

they are roaming manhattan
sliding in the slush and snow in sloppy packs
frat boys in santa costumes
with piss stains on the crotch
their sorority girlfriends
in the requisite whore mrs. claus costume
complete with fishnets
and tits paid for by their parent’s hedge fund
lily white boys and girls from the suburbs
doing a pub crawl through cavernous streets
they claim it’s for charity
but the only charity most of the neighborhoods get
are puddles of vomit
a rise in sexual assault cases
and blood-soaked concrete from drunken donnybrooks
when the seize and carnage of these vile idiots is complete
i am standing outside a famous bookstore
that never has anything inside for me to buy
watching four of these red and white aliens
trying their best to remember which way is west from east
so that they can join their friends
for cheap drinks at another bar catering to this shit
it’s clear that they have no idea where they’re at
three o’clock in the afternoon in union square
and they are already stumbling blind
and reeking of green beer and bottom shelf rot gut
i hear them arguing with each other
their red-faced and bloated leader
with a bad-boy 5 o’clock shadow
staggering into the street to hail a cab
to 12th street and 2nd avenue
and almost getting hit by one that refuses to stop
while the other idiots check google maps
jesus christ this is what the holiday has come down to
another gratuitous display of heathenism
by our next generation of CEOs and lawmakers
it’s just as well
but then one of the mrs. claus spots me standing there
she’s a hot little blonde number in green tights
and little else
hours from now her mouth and asshole
will probably be swollen from another bad idea gone awry
but for now her focus is on me
she’s trying to get her man to get directions from me
to their next bar
i figure if he comes over i’ll send him to east new york
to see how well he does out there
dressed like some cheerful drunken asshole
her boyfriend looks at me through beady red eyes
he says, fuck that guy
he looks like a faggot who doesn’t drink
and then the four of them take off in the wrong direction
two of them falling in the gray slush
sullying their festive costumes
and when they come wobbling back ten minutes later
screaming at each other
in front of hundreds of holiday shoppers
their big ball in the city ruined
by their own gluttony
and blondie starts making eyes at me again
i think maybe i’ll go back into the famous bookstore
give it one more shot
kill an hour before my pub opens up at four o’clock
where last year the world’s coolest bartender made it a sport
to see how many of these jolly motherfuckers
he could throw out.


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