By Rachel Corso
Oh how it was,
How it never should have been—
Mundane sounds of laughter
Masked with the pale stench of gin—
Myoclonic movements to the sequenced strobes;
Solely highlighting those in overpriced stilettos.
And so it goes,
And goes, and goes, and goes,
Like these stale scenes in suburban neighborhoods.
Where Frat boys, in their parents’ rented homes,
Claim that the pre-cut lines of coke will never get blown.
But we all know,
That the bathroom tile sees best through the nose—
And that your box of Reds collects more than just boges.
And how it is,
These rolled up singles, for singles, who found singular sensation
In bumps off the cold.
And your claims of this shit “getting old” seem so sincere,
I can see it: eyes bulged.
And it’s all so clear,
With your staggering gonzo fist pumped high—More lines!
I mean, lies!
More lies about lines—
About the Frat boys and their fat lies about the fat lines.
And so, and so, and so,
With your powdered nose, and your gin filled solo,
You whisper, in jittered tongue to that dumb blonde,
Who can’t understand your sophomoric prose—
Oh, how it was,
How it never should have been!