Day Twelve: ‘Goon At The Window’

April 12, 2015

“This song’s about some wine and some virginity…
in the dorms,” the bearded songwriter slurs
into the mic at the live summer broadcast.
You cackle too, knowing those pangs as gospel
since the first college weeks when you stumbled
from brick house to vodka-bottle double-suite
in search of — God, what was it? Company
or origin story for friends? It happened anyway
as clumsy as you’d imagined, hope leaking out
of wobbly rubber, faces red, pants zipped
quickly and shoes shoved on, still untied.
The quad between the buildings like an ocean,
and the goodbye misplaced as a moonless night.
A year later, a goon at the window
and scared to dive back in, panic and drought
a new middle name. Two more, a weekly occurrence
when she’s round, which isn’t always, but when she is,
was like a goddamn hurricane. More goons now
at windowsills across the USA,
spraying guts in text messages and chats
and hoping, praying to their horny gods.
This song’s about some cheap wine at the cornershop
and yeah maybe virginity, if you’ve still got it.
If not, it’s about laughing like a jackal
in the slow sands down continents away,
marveling at the kill. Hungering. Feasting.

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