I'm between a rock and a hard place, or at least that's how it seems. Put in the effort to look like a "real man" by bulking up and putting on muscle, or satisfy my craving and quick fix of becoming thin and appeasing my mind. I'd prefer the former, to be an actual adult and have mass on me, but I cannot bear the instability it brings my mind at this moment, so I'll succumb to the latter. Polyester pants, tight yellow shirt, slick 60's haircut, massive knuckles and hairy forearms, the image of a real man. Don't forget the thick arms and strong neck, that's a must.
I thought about writing a poem but now the man in me said not to be a faggot. I know writing poems isn't anything to deride a person about, but I should quell my emotions, keep them out of sight, go to sleep and think about fucking my co-worker if I had the chance. I don't think about those things because my energy isn't there, neither is the real inspiration to write a poem. Now, when did writing a poem come into all of this? You see, grading students English work means you'll run into a few poems, like today, so that naturally ignites a dormant interest. Not too short, not too long, but just right. The Goldilocks way, the innuendo for an insecure mans penis size when attempting to treat women.
I picture getting into a fight a-la Ray Liotta, absolutely fucking brutal, no time for sprinkles of Hollywood. A kid asks for my help, some dip shit just knocked his bike down. I stand up from my car, knuckles ready. I don't fight the kid, but his uncle who's been goading him the whole time, and get ready for a release of rabid fury. One punch, two punch, three punch, four, each increasing my jail time, each breaking his jaw even more, each etching the sound of grunts and shattered bone into my memory. This is no fight, this is a mauling. His wife screams, my kid urges to stop, the kids on the street start running away. His come-over is messy now, his face covered in blood, my knuckles swelling from the repeated motion of ravenous blows. The deed is done, no more left in the testosterone fueled beating, just messed up hair, a strange desire from his wife to sleep with me, and a shaking hand with a sprained finger or two. No one will mess with you now, kid, just get your mom to call 911 because my hands are useless and this man is about to die on his driveway.
This desire to be an animal, fucking bat shit crazy, strong, imposing, quiet, and powerful. I don't possess these because I haven't accentuated them, but one day I hope to.
"There's no time for bitching, Axel, stop writing this gay shit and go to bed"
I thought about writing a poem but now the man in me said not to be a faggot. I know writing poems isn't anything to deride a person about, but I should quell my emotions, keep them out of sight, go to sleep and think about fucking my co-worker if I had the chance. I don't think about those things because my energy isn't there, neither is the real inspiration to write a poem. Now, when did writing a poem come into all of this? You see, grading students English work means you'll run into a few poems, like today, so that naturally ignites a dormant interest. Not too short, not too long, but just right. The Goldilocks way, the innuendo for an insecure mans penis size when attempting to treat women.
I picture getting into a fight a-la Ray Liotta, absolutely fucking brutal, no time for sprinkles of Hollywood. A kid asks for my help, some dip shit just knocked his bike down. I stand up from my car, knuckles ready. I don't fight the kid, but his uncle who's been goading him the whole time, and get ready for a release of rabid fury. One punch, two punch, three punch, four, each increasing my jail time, each breaking his jaw even more, each etching the sound of grunts and shattered bone into my memory. This is no fight, this is a mauling. His wife screams, my kid urges to stop, the kids on the street start running away. His come-over is messy now, his face covered in blood, my knuckles swelling from the repeated motion of ravenous blows. The deed is done, no more left in the testosterone fueled beating, just messed up hair, a strange desire from his wife to sleep with me, and a shaking hand with a sprained finger or two. No one will mess with you now, kid, just get your mom to call 911 because my hands are useless and this man is about to die on his driveway.
This desire to be an animal, fucking bat shit crazy, strong, imposing, quiet, and powerful. I don't possess these because I haven't accentuated them, but one day I hope to.
"There's no time for bitching, Axel, stop writing this gay shit and go to bed"
