David J. Thompson

All That Sticky Stuff

I hate myself for it,
but despite their lifestyle
of the decadent idle rich, 
I’ve fallen deep in love
with the Kardashian sisters.
I see them every afternoon
for a fantasy hour as I ride
a stationary bike at the gym.
I try to pretend I’m watching CNN
or ESPN, but on the big TV on the wall, 
those Kardashian smiles are brighter,
their hair shinier, breasts larger,
and kissable lips even fuller.

Even at my age, I can’t stop
thinking about them, especially
when I go to bed at night.
Visions in the dark of Kim,
Kourtney, and Khloé send my hands
under the covers and shortly 
I fall into a familiar dream –
the whup-whup sound
of helicopters in the sky,
fires burning in the distance.
The Kardashians are lined up
against a burnt out building.
A bearded guy wearing a red beret 
and jungle fatigues hands me
a pistol. Execute these bourgeois
enemies of the revolution, he commands.
I take the gun, and as I pull the trigger,
I wake up with a long moan, then
relax for a moment there in the dark 
to catch my breath. I fight the urge 
for a cigarette, and smile when I realize 
it’s only a dream, and all that sticky stuff 
I feel, thank God, is not their blood on my hands.

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