a poem by Lara Konesky (1 of 2)

Cancer

I thought it was funny that all he wrote about
was fucking chicks
and drinking too much
because he was 21 and hot, and
that's what he was supposed to do.
And most of us were jealous
he was doing it with such consistency
and so poetically
However, I would have much rather
heard about the trauma
of his small dick
or dead parents
or missing testicle
or the time he was gay bashed even though
he just dressed really nice

Instead
he told us about how hard he made girls cum,
and how many bottles of Jack lined his counter tops
and how shit just fizzles out when you are pretty and young

and the rest of us just didn't give a fuck
by the time he had lit his first cigarette

we had already died from cancer

© by Lara Konesky
 
Gutter Eloquence Magazine ~ Issue #10 ~ July 2010    next poem