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"Bodak Rainbow"
by Jeph Johnson
It's a foregone conclusion that her delusions of mania will hide in plain sight right up until your heart is brimming with glimmers of hopefulness.
All the while she's conjuring notions of illogic and proclaiming a penchant for the fetish of sapiosexuality.
But weeping cheapens the illusions you wished you'd used the other night when thoughts of conspiring ladies like her seemed entirely contrived.
You see, tears exist like this to keep lyrics lubricated, alive and flowing; falling fresh with a fashionable frequency.
A vibrancy permeates from my recollection of too many hours buried between her thighs deliciously devouring drops of irresistible maidenly musk.
Now I'm at home stroking to her toking online karaoke.
Is it my determination or her song's progression that feeds the aggression making water well in my eyes?
It's damp in the stagnant air tonight.
Under her bed I hide to seek more grown-up children's games.
More chore now, than "Daddy's little whore."
Yes, you've got to play it unrehearsed; unready and unskinny while a thundering crescendo of tinny treble rebels yell "you're winning" at the fullish moon while on the radio the ghost of Shannon Hoon shrieks a line about keeping his cheeks dry.
But when you're comotosed from overdosing and continue to cry, the puddles overflow and make your temples as slick as the first skipping stone you cast alone.
She indeed judges me harshly for being too judgemental.
Please, somebody give me a better reason to get out of bed this weekend.
No, I'm not renting a car again, if anyone cares; not unless there's a Heaven above or if it has tailfins like a '57 Chevy Bel Air.
Bending up, without even referencing the song and with a straight face she told me that brown eyes can indeed turn blue under the right circumstances.
Instead something called bodak yellow dribbled down her chin.
So now I begin again.
