Best In Show

They walk past me in their uniform of perfection.
Bright colored cloths; crisp and neat,
hair combed to look as if it weren't.
Tall, thin confidence.
Their eyes burn through me.
Dismissed for being ugly,
for not owning a gym membership,
for not fronting a fake confidence.
I feel their burn.
This awkward heap of skin and bones
layered in last seasons fashion.
I feel their disdain and it shows;
a subliminal uneasiness I project.
I fake comfort,
I never make eye contact.
I am the half-starved dog
with three spots of mange
they all feel sorry for,
but do nothing to help.
The pretty; uninteresting girls
drink apple martinis and wait for their mark,
the good looking sucker who'll buy the next round.
The smart college girls,
indie rock hipsters with WWF and flannel shirts
drink Stella’s while their dates look for
The MC5 or Tom Waits on the juke.
They come to be seen,
to make regrets…
to find someone to join the peace corps with.
I sit and watch in utter disgust,
burn through them as they do me.
But my burn is dull,
mine is of a jealous anger.
I shoot Jamison and wait for the
beautiful girls I came with
(None of whom I’ll go home with)
to get their fill.
So that they can feel relevant,
so that they have something
to look back on one day.
Tonight I’ll drink ‘till their razors edge
becomes dull and distant.
I’ll go home and cum to the one most
scantly dressed.
I’ll fall asleep in my jeans and one sock
and dream of what it must be like
to be wanted…
To be the dog with the shiny coat,
the dog every woman wants to caress.
Tonight I’ll dream of the day that I
can be best in show.