so I don't know much, and correct me if I'm wrong but this is what I get from my brother when he comes home late talking about his heart hurting when it gets stepped on
and from my mom when she starts crying cause she didn't recognize her son with a Dodgers baseball cap over his face like a burglar when he snuck in
and doesn't recognize him with the cap off, with his lion eyes gone soft like a bunny rabbit
and then tells me that she'll come and get me if I, like my brother, ever stay out too late, and it doesn't feel good no more, coming up, coming down,
and all I've gotta do is call
and from the boys who're bundling up rabid dogs in their stomachs
and from the blonde from the east side of paradise who brings me flowers, and cigarettes, and advice on blowjobs
and it's not much, but this is what I'm gonna give you:
sometimes you're gonna be in love, and other times just believe you are
sometimes you're fucking the right one to love, loving the one you should fuck
sometimes you're with a butcher when you need a paleontologist
and he loves your meat but not your bones
he kisses your neck, but slits your throat
and calls you "baby" while you fuck, calls you "good girl" when you make him cum real good
asks you "who's ever gonna love you like I do?" and because you don't have an answer, you assume the answer is nobody
and when you are clocked and hung by your hooves like a buck and half dead with lust, he bleeds you out, and you let him, cause he tells you "this is love"
and chops off the parts he likes, the fat, the thick flesh he can knead and cure between his fingers
but doesn't like the taste of your heart when it gushes hot blood and love into his mouth
he says it's an acquired taste, cause it's too sticky sweet
doesn't care to bite your bones, and taste the brand of milk your mother brought home when you were tiny, and wore ribbons in your hair, on your red knees at the altar while she was preaching urban sermons about Christ, and calcium,
and strong bones
he sells cured meats cause he's a big man, bad motherfucker, and he doesn't much care about your mother and her milk
doesn't want to know the texture of your brain when it was getting smacked around like a hockey puck all year
so he chops off what he likes
leaves the rest to rot, feeds it to the strays when he's through.
and that's what I'd like to say,
and do what you want with it.
