Bad Pill // Good Club
Hipsters vs. Guidos in iambic pentameter
Parodic lovers lay undressed in bed.
They spoke with Truth unmoving in their minds.
One said, “The crust on bread is for the poor.
Some people throw it out for lack of need.
And grated cheese is for the rich and white.”
“What thoughtful thoughts you spout when you are high!”
the other lover spoke, “Such genius! Know
that each and any word you’ve said today
is ever better than a work of prose.”
“That’s why I keep a journal in my bag.”
The female lover lulled in soft reply.
“To write down any thought that might be gold.”
“I’ll paint your nails to match your brain,” he said,
“the Midas touch upon your hands and toes.”
She laughed, then sacrificed her hand and spoke.
“I love the joke of ever-dazzling gold.
Egyptians told it many years ago,
and Saturn’s Sun Ra often sang of it.
And now, the painted princess sitting flat
against the Montauk shore is dressed in gold,
with gold upon her fingers and her toes.”
“She does not see the joke of modern wealth.”
The other said in casual distaste.
“Because she is the joke, and so are we.”
With that, they fell through darkness into sleep.
I cut the crust off my bread.
