Bitch, Its Math Class!
Sit quick,
Numbing digits, thumbing the clicks,
Tocking, as we watch a stop-watched time bomb on the wall.
Fifteen minutes, once I’m gone, all they all will.
The cinders will bury you, on the floor.
You’re the bare skin rug; and they win.
My mind on the cliffs, of a cosmic monopoly, it calls for me.
Hold the line, hand on your happy hexagon trigger.
Hang up! Hold up!
Calm down sweetie, just click your calculator, shh.
Sit, sit back down. Sour.
Break crash, smash down.
That hour-ticking glass casket. It sits
While you deal with your digits, dexterous and quick.
Shush downs, push downs, pull ups
now on the up and up.
Further spurred by the slip-ups of the hot-faced strippers. Listy lust,
Up, down, down, up.
My mainstreet, hodgepodge pipe dream.
Look and see. Look down in the gutter, guaranteed,
in this lackadaisical popsicle haze,
you’ll see days; overflowing. A greasy bag of popping kernels;
Microcosms exploding.
Eat it, leave it, nest it back. In its gutter home.
Draw a stick figure thick as an armchair.
Still you stare with that blank clarity holding your waist. Buttoned up and exploding.
Don’t! You slowly eroding jeaned jackass, head to toe.
Hands housed, back on track,
in your perfectly fugly pockets.
Perve.
That pricking nag, one more minute remains.
Of your sorry mainstreet pipedream. Well,
“winner winner chicken dinner?”
Hang up! Hold up! Wake up!
Quickly,
itch that nagging itch.
Cuz, hi there, hey there,
Guess what:
You’re the lucky winner, bitch.
(Source: letskillthefuckingworld)
JackHawk 9000 Bottle Opener Wayfarers
(Source: buffaloesandrabbitfood)
i dont need to write that down i’ll remember
follow me for a follow back
Losin’ shoes and shit…
