The Telephone

Another night of too much cough syrup

I am awakened by the incessant ringing of the telephone

I still have dreams caked in the corners of my eyes and

My mouth is dry and tastes shitty

Again—the ringing. Slowly, I bustle out of bed

The remnants of an erection still lingering in

My shorts like a bothersome guest

Again the ringing. Carefully I abscond to the bathroom

So as to not display my manhood to others

There I make the perfunctory morning faces

Which always seem to precede my daily contribution to

The once-blue toilet water that I always enjoy making green

Again the ringing. I shake twice like most others

As I am annoyed by the dribble that always seems to remain

Causing a small acreage of wetness on the front of my briefs

I slowly, languidly, lazily, crazily stumble into the den where

My father smokes his guitars—I mean cigars—In his easy chair

I know all about easy chairs. And then I sing a song for my friends:

“Jesus is my boyfriend

Jesus is my boyfriend

You can’t have him

Because Jesus is my boyfriend”

Ringing, ringing. Dang it goddamn motherfucking son-of-a-bitch is ringing

I walk into the kitchen and I stare blankly at that shrieking plastic bastard

Since it keeps ringing I know it’s her

And since it keeps ringing she knows it’s me

We are the world, we are the children

We are the ones who make a darker day

So let’s start killing

There’s a choice you’re making

We’re sparing our own lives

It’s true we’ll make a darker day

Just you and me