Finx

Now, who will help bring Goopy Time to life?

Let’s pen another verse,

Can it be called Finx?

No, let’s name it afterwards,

Perhaps a tale of finks,
Or a wooden grandfather?

No! It must be a surreal epic.

But I don’t want it to take so long—
How about a quaint nursery rhyme?

I think we shall call it:
“Pillow Over My Face and Menstrual Fluid on My Naked Lap.”

Okay, let’s dive in:
The first line…?

It was awful sweet of you
Not to let me see.

Crushed against my pallid face,
A pillow smothered me.
What about the menses?
That punchline can come later.

I took a nap from three to five,
My body shuddered, barely alive.
My lips against your dirty pillows,
You needn’t be awake,
But please don’t be asleep—
My heart went beating,
Pa-pum pa-pum;
I kissed your cheek,
You started to shake,
I held your hand,
You fell over—deceased.

No rhymes?
No—but I insist.
Please indulge me.
I am your grand daddy long legs,
Let me invade your Mars.

This poem is dumb anyway,
Let’s rhyme, methinks!
But I don’t want to be credited…
Let’s start again!

(Okay, but we need a theme at least…)
How about Lipstick on a Leather Boot?
Too punk.
Whiplash and a Skilled Masseuse?
Too Velvet Underground.
Tanktop Teenage Box-knife…?
Remember the day your trailer sank,
Yellow roses and velvet skin?

I remember the smell of bodies,
Decomposing softly,
And how you wouldn’t finish yelling at me.
I didn’t make the ground so soft, now did I?
We rolled in the rosebushes,
My lolling tongue, you smirking
At the terrible inevitability
Of the jokes we both made.

Every joke had its match in what came to be,
And who that stuff most impacted.

Another Ramone has cancer, babe,
This time it’s you,
For your name is Ramone as well.
Let’s just spit these phrases out,
Then we’ll tie them together as best we can…

Make that kissy face once more at me—and…
I can only wax my eyebrows so many times.
Let’s go to Rome and feed ourselves to the lepers—
Those lepers?
It’ll all come together in the edit.

I wanted you to make me—
But all you did was make—
You make me want to write bad poetry.
That should be the last line.

My nose itches to be in your pubic stubble.
Then there was that time you touched me,
And I said stop it,
For I didn’t want you to think
I wanted your touch all of the time.

You gave me depression,
You gave me diabetes,
You gave me overweight,
I’m a pistol in BVDs,
Like a moon coming out of the closet,
And you’re just Willem Dafoe in
To Live and Die in,
Making me want to.

Is this poem almost ready?
What are we doing then?
You have a white strip on your ring finger,
Just to make me think something’s up,
But I know you’re just .05% albino,
And you make me regret my testicles ever descending.

(I’m writing it—hold on.)