No, not sitting, but supine,
Not supine.
For the eyes must take in the vulgarity.
Prone. In this rut.
Shit is not a nothing,
but rich and complex.
Prone with the complexity splayed over bare shoulders.
Prone to shield the face and eyes,
Drown in the burial,
Nonetheless.
***
Today. Day 1 of 2012 Life in Bumblefuck series.
The apartment is too large for one person,
Brown couch, black coffee table, dark tv and accompanying dismal tv stand.
The plethora of space is uncouth.
So brown and pushed against the wall,
The couch sits dejectedly like the ugly girl who never gets hit on,
But also too dismayed (watching all the attention her hot girlfriends are getting) to do anything about it.
And so it sits.
Or supined.
No, proned.
***
I never see that couch when I walk in the door,
Everyone else walks right pass it.
It garners attention no matter,
For its perfect height and plushness,
The easy graspability of its microfiber fabric,
That one would only experience while doggystylin' it.
Unengaged otherwise,
The orphan couch waits,
Pines and yearns.
***
No particular reason.
Yet wonder and thought still invested,
Why what how one starts to take notice.
Even pretty girls get tiring,
Put that ugly duckling front and center,
Beg the question, can she fill those shoes?
Uncertainty being the allure.
***
Drag that couch and sit it facing the door,
Sit it like it owns the whole fucking apartment,
As I walk in the door,
Hope to see it stare me down,
And force me to plea for acceptance before entering further.
Beg the question, can it fill those shoes?
Certainty being the allure.
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