On Monday You Feel Like A Naked Burt Reynolds

 

On Monday You Feel Like A Naked Burt Reynolds

 

On Monday you feel

like a naked

Burt Reynolds

like a 70’s magazine

fold out

excessively mustached & hairy

 

Tuesday’s still hairy

but methodically lacking in that sweaty mustache feel

propelled by desperation the missing’s worn inside out

and doesn’t fit right to the point where your toe nails feel naked

and the sun sets like a dirty magazine

when you learn she’s recently dating some jerk-off name Burt

 

Wednesday becomes Hate Burt

Day, puppet-name-posing-as-a-human-name-hairy

makes-a-living-editing-her-favorite-magazine-

big-foot-swifty bastard, you don’t feel

well go home from work early sit on the couch semi-naked

while drinking bourbon and watching reruns of Lost you pass out

 

Thursday you spend paddling without

a rowboat trailing behind the wake of the S.S Burt

which based on these cruel winds has totally seen her naked

by now, before midnight you watch a couple Ray Harry-

hausen movies and while listening to That’s The Way I Feel

by the Johnny Burnette Trio you send a snotty email to that fucker’s magazine

 

Friday morning she instructs you over the phone

to leave the magazine out of this

says she understands how you feel

and all that but Burt

has a hairy

temper and if you contact him at work again he’ll beat you naked

 

Saturday’s spent trying to figure out what ‘beat naked’

exactly means, you smoke cigarettes next to the corner magazine

stand cursing the sunlight because it makes your knuckles look hairy

and try to scrape the facts out

of your skull, that on the phone she’d called Burt

her boyfriend, dead pigeons scream: you know how they feel

 

Sunday you wake up naked and out

of your mind vowing fuck magazines! fuck Burt!

fuck Harry Houdini! I’ll escape this! (I’m over it), fuck the way I feel

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