Chris Mardiroussian

Can we fuck and still be friends?

Won’t work if she smells 
like buttered popcorn, 
looks like a hot air balloon,
thighs thicker than a snicker
splitting those denim blue jeans,
Ass like a stuffed trash bag,
backing it up like a tractor
ready for harvest.

Won’t work if she a tall 
glass of bourbon whiskey 
enough to bust a 
few nuts and
thirst a few hearts
smothering meat
with crusted, rosy buttcheeks 
and begging on knees
like church Sunday 
praying to Jesus for alimony.

Won’t work if she performs weekends
cash money splurged on
purses, booze, heels, jewels, cigarettes 
all for spoiled, snotty, shitty 
hooligans cruising around town 
like taxicab drivers in search of 
some ripe, fleshy, putrid, lesbian pussy. 

Won’t work if we bitch, moan, whine
and split the spotlight to fly coach 
sharing a Queen-sized bed 
in a cheap hotel where hookers cost pennies, 
thinking what’s in that bald watermelon 
head of hers, pouncing on that prey
to make a move by
slithering under the sheets,

Won’t work if she looks like ash,
reeks of spoiled, rancid ass
and treats you 
like trash–   

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