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In my eternal quest
for existential hedonistic pleasure
I have spent a
great majority of my existence on this planet
in the prolonged search for a partner
among a sea of porcelain carved
text-book pseudo-goddesses
with ocean-tide eyes and waterfall tresses
which call for the sailor's weary soul to crash itself
down
and drown forever in their never-ending eyes.
And I found her
once
and our bodies meshed
and our hearts cried out in complete
and perfect synapse, our hearts
and minds were one perfect being...
Then she dumped me.
So I've come to my
one pseudo-rational thought for the decade.
I need a pork
rind eating woman.
I need a pork
rind-eating woman
who is engrossed with the daily workings of the National
Inquirer
and who has a journal detailing the revelations of every
guest on Geraldo for the past five years.
I need a pork
rind-eating woman
who has never seen a treadmill or a
"This could be your perfect body" Stairmaster.
I need a woman who
still thinks that they are nature's perfect food
and that Cheetos are the armpit axis of Western
Civilization.
No more Calvin
Kline bulimic fashion divas in training for faux grandeur
and Pavlovian excess.
No more spray paint
and sparkled faces
with $35,000 wardrobes
and personal trainers.
I need a pork
rind-eating woman
who bought her clothes with half-off coupons at K-Mart
(and not because it's chic to be low maintenance)
and has a map detailing all the stops the Dolly Madison Ding
Dong truck makes across the continental United
States.
I need a woman
who smokes eighteen packs of cigarettes a day
and has team of paramedics
permanently parked outside her trailer.
Most importantly, a non-manufactured soul
required.
Copyright EPB,
1995
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