Listen :: I Hate Myself :: Less Than Nothing
Less Than Nothing
So what’s the plan?
He sits on my bed
in his tight blue and white plaid button down shirt,
the one reserved for special occasions.
Q and Not U show in Brooklyn,
you need a costume.
The night is clear
the smell of dead and dying leaves flies at us.
We walk : a foot of space
at each other
before staring at the ground.
In his old Civic
an old mix tape plays : Our Time :
Bedford : Magnus : Stutterbum
Worthless : 1.21 : Abscission : Option
I stare at the indentations
my fishnets make on my knees.
It’s odd to be anywhere but
a Bedford show on Halloween, I say.
I turn to his backseat,
So you keep a cowboy hat in your car?
You have to be ready
for anything, he says.
We walk through the crowd
bump into Billy Idol,
a few spacemen, and a giant chicken before
we reach the stage.
I shiver even with my coat on.
Hello there, we are Stan Levine’s Party Machine
the band in powder blue tuxedos,
yarmulkes, and fake mustaches shout.
We’re glad that you could all be here to celebrate
Ben Cohen’s Bar Mitzvah with us.
The Chicken Dance
he looks at me
with the smile
of the fifteen year old BMX kid
who moshed at shows.
The room is a sing-along
White Wedding and Nothin’ But a Good Time
I stuff my jacket under the stage
sing and dance with the pit.
Stand on my toes
shoved by the crowd
I kiss him.
Thank you everyone and goodnight.
I stare out the passenger window
through my transparent reflection.
Why are you here?
I thought we were…
I needed a night
with the summer girl.
We walk down
the florescent hallways
of the dorm. The graffiti covered door slams.
I change into pajamas
lie on my bed,
he lays next to me
his arm resting my stomach.
I try to talk
stop myself every time.
I brush his hair from his eyes.
We had a good run.
Yeah, we had a good run.