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
