Shannon, the dude cunt.

August 13, 2013 § Leave a comment

She was two decades too late for the eighties with her eighties name
and her eighties hair and her eighties way of gussying up when she’d drink
cheap piss beer in blue bottles on the porch down the street.

Eyeliner smeared in haggard pale flesh like she hadn’t washed it off the night before
or maybe she was just clueless and rubbed her eyes all the time.

Dollar store high wasted tapered jeans with dingy white sweat socks and
boxy shoes and t-shirts so big they should swallow but were tight cause her boobs
were so big.
Stretched tiddies, someone said.
Tugging at the straps of a grimy support bra,
yanking cause nobody ever taught her any class.

Big boned with her puckered shit-shoot eyes pillowed
in heavy bags layered with brittle bangs she teased sometimes when she’d try and look sexy
for the married men at work.
Cunts with balls. She’d smile something stained.
Humming that awful song about giving men her number even though she knows it’s crazy cause
she just met you but, (call me, baby)

Mid thirties a cashier everyday doing nothing worth anything to anyone.
She couldn’t cross her legs like a proper fuckin’ lady
so she just leant over on her breaks outside like the tired man struggling just trying to pay his way.
Got a family and a mortgage.
Except she didn’t have a mortgage for that shit hole she called home.

I got her face to face on Halloween but she kept her head down looking at her phone like she was nobody and didn’t know shit.
You guys get much candy? Mumbling about stingy cheapos stiffing adults.
Also there was the man she married who was dim in the skull and was dressed
like death or something just standing there all slowed aside his slow friend who was dressed
like a slow girl with bright yellow yarn for hair.

Shannon the dude cunt wouldn’t look up to face me.
And nobody introduced the slow dude dressed like a lady
so I said to her deathly dim husband,
That your wife?


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