Barscene

space
There’s no need to buy me
a drink. I’m mad about neighbors
but the thought of you
relocating to the barstool on my right
makes me long to plug up
every hole I own
with chewing gum.

But here you are & so
I gab to fill the pinkspace
of the conversation.
Midnight catches me mid-
yawn and tra la la it’s time
for a visit to the bathroom:
that timeworn pretense

granted to women
from the plucky goddesses
of fuck-that-dude.
I feel you watching
what my bluejeans cover
as I tootle towards
the toilet’s gumstained walls.

The sass detained
in half my ass
could crash your hard drive, boy.
Don’t waste
your hard-earned dollars
on goods I won’t imbibe.
When it comes to chitchat,

love & beverages,
the truth stings: we diverge.