fuck you, marlon brando

i sit in shackles as he screams stella

and says i’m sorry, baby

absent father figures lead way to

silver screen ideals of husbands

we don’t question this

those who live by freud and lynch

that through those tears running down

a perfect jawline

are all those moments lost in time

last night a radio was thrown

but not to worry

only one tube was smashed

i’ve been lapping it up like a wildcat

the booze, the view, the abuse

he walks in, bare-chested, beer in hand

blindly i fumble for sanity

the manifestation of a fantasy

and all the dark undertones therein


i need a summer night

with sweaty, foul-mouthed boars

and weak damsels fading in the heat

so that this passion doesn’t seem so

out of place

a night when i can say

a shot never hurt a coke

and as the tone drops an octave

i can laugh and either say

what else was i supposed to do?


don’t hang back with the brutes

and be sincere in both


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