No, You Are

No, you are.

DeWitt, You're My Gag Reflex

You are the post-partum depression of Stalin's mother.

Your shoes look like broken possums.

There are only 12 hairs on your chin

and they're all on the same mole.

Did I mention your brain is stupid?

If this poem is bad,

it's because I'm imitating you.

If it's good, it must be something else.

Never Call Me at 3am From My Own Room

Jordan,

Futurists and kissing Stalin? How far in your mouth can you reach before you trigger a gag reflex? Are you even trying anymore?

You're as ugly as the sound of a car wreck. You're the twisting metal in the gut of a lie. You're the bags under the eyes of a bag lady.

For that matter, what are you doing tonight? Castro said your blow jobs are terrible. Said he almost died until that happened. Said if he had died with your lips making that awful sucking noise, he'd have regretted ever cigar he burned to the ass.

Let's go to Cuba. We need to update your shame.

Kisses,
DeWitt

I Missed You Too

There's something fuzzy on your breath. And if you were frozen I would not thaw you. Why would I steal your identity, DeWitt? You're like a giant Twinkie vomiting raw pork all over this blog. I bet when you wake up you kiss a portrait of Stalin while stray cats tumble out your underwear.