By Joshua Beckman
I like your handsome drugs. Your pleasant
drugs. You frozen fingernails. Your painted
fingernails. That man screamed out. "The
karate chop of love," before tackling that woman.
The breeze. Your sort of quiet happy voices.
The karate chop of love. Your handsome drugs.
If you, in all your sexiness, could just bring that
over here. A barrel of fried chicken. That girl
named Katie. A birthday party. Yeah. I go
running in, all ready to show everyone the
karate chop of love. And that girl named Katie.
A barrel of chicken. The breeze. This
birthday party is fucked without the karate
chop of love. Your handsome drugs.
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1 comment:
I love this poem, but it is gloriously hedonistic. Can't help but notice the irony that the person posting is a missionary.
Thanks for putting this up on the internet. I only have this poem in hard copy. Beckman is super cool in person too. Also, you made a typo in line 2.
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