Search, under couches, pockets,
In purses while old ladies sleep, you are hungry
And on the menu are Schick razors – disposable
They are,
But the pain under your hairy hill
Has become hard to abort –
Steal a knife from your mother,
While she is cutting chicken fat and
Rub the blade across your forehead-
Now sing, a Puff Daddy song from his late 80’s catalog,
While sitting in a power wheels truck.
Put the blade on your knee-
Carve a picture of a poke ball- then peel,
Like the sweetest of tangerines-
Throw the skin against the wall
And hope to trap them with a rare pack
Of 1975 English pub darts-
Ignore lathering, Blow the Schick Razor
Like Goldilocks in front of Papa Bear’s porridge-
Then dive into it-
Aim for a perfect circle attached to a non perfect leg.

© Poetic Assasin – 2008

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