by Mary Arnett
Hello, Future Boy!
Did you get the sup? nod
from the Priest today? And
did you parlay that into
getting the high
sign from the communion server?
To gulp down, the last of the back-
washed blood?
Gold, Future Boy! You are Gold!
Get a little juicy
buzz on you
before you
high five the guy throwing leeches!
D.I.Y. or DIE!
Bloodletting 4 every1
we scream at the show! Throwing
punches and blowing dudes
kisses. But you’re in
the corner all like,
“I have nvr feared da bomb.”
But you’re always right there
when the shit explodes
and glitter goes everywhere.
You slide up to me,
flip your shades down, send vibes
through your fingers and say,
“Don’t hope, cope.”
Meanwhile, our friend Francis
is out on the floor
doing, like, toprocks, baby swipes,
turn arounds, bust ‘em ups, swing
dives, flares, Buddha spins, deadman
floats, penny caps, bottle drops, pin
jabs, Chinese get ups, jackhammers,
and head slides and
I’m all like, “I’m just a dirty painter.”
And you grab my red nails
And lick the polish off.
And I’m all like,
“That is NOT holy stuff, Future Boy.”