Ogle


Joe Kowalski



I feel like I’m a daughter to her,

But I don’t really want to get dressed,

Trudge through the metropolis of livestock,

To spear through the jeers and cat-calls

Of humanoid old slimebags

To make it to her house,

Thoroughly violated.

I don’t want to deal with men

Who warble that they’re ‘nice guys’

Because they have stared at, and memorized, my ass,

Instead of grabbing it.

Each day vomits that delight towards me as is.

 

And god bless Mrs. Conforto’s soul–

I love her. I do.

She practically raised me.

But what I really need right now,

Is a hearty bowl of ice cream,

And limitless time to reweave the charred frays.