Who wants something simple and real?
Like kissing on a park bench.
Who wants good and pure?
Not me anyhow.

The streetlight match was made like a hot knife through air,
like a summer night serenade drenched in cheap beer sweat and
spent lottery tickets.
She barely knows my name but it's not like we're any bigger than a distraction from the surrounding world.
We've got no idea of the small things like how the other did in high school or where our most noticeable scars came from but we're both trying to not give a damn.

We dance like shadow puppets cast from a hand full of broken fingers,
just like five card stud all luck of the draw.
Miles from the first-date-glow where everything is shining and new we grab each other and touch passed the tan lines,
forcibly finding way to lose our virginity for the four dozenth time.

We do what we have to right?
Like eating trucker speed and white-washing our own self-delusions until our consciences blink on and off like the second letter on this motel's no vacancy sign.
Whatever it takes to out-last another weekend and kill the twisting pain that is our deep down urge for the simple and real.

We try to make the inborn hunger pains shut the hell up so we can find some damn peace,
no matter how far the glow wandered away from us or how sticky and humid these undying and suffocatingly hot summer midnights throw themselves across our tired tattooed skin.
We read the directions back to ourselves,
spit on the words and rub the letters until the ink blurs into something other than solid and legible.

We want to be complacent with our bronze metal and feel the third place victory as sweet as the lies we pantomime forth and back into the mirror.
Because, in the end we want more than anything to simply stop wanting.

So here we go,
deep breath and honest eyes.
Game face through everything,
every single time...
after all who wants good and pure?
Not me anyhow.

By Scott Jensen
straightdopeorbit.blogspot.com

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