Most of this
which I hate
are contests
to uncover,
to celebrate
the clever.
He, who fucked the prom queen,
not that night or the summer after,
but ten years later. He proved that
this and the next are never too late
for ones who keep teenage appetite
rolling like doll heads on the Mexican juice can assembly line.
He is the clever one
with pin up models and dusty cologne
that smells eerily like a Nazi salute,
aimed toward an undone bed of ruffled flesh and shuffled lace.
He is the clever one with upturned sleeves and heavy eyes,
pulling your gaze like cigar smoke on a brown leather couch.
Most of this
white I hate
are contests
he wins.
Most of this
is already his—
just like this poem,
because he is just that good
and he never need mention me at all.

written on 08/20/2010 by: Matt Kane