Not A Love Story.

Let me tell you the story of little Danny:

a lovely boy he was

and grew up to be a handsome young man.

Girls liked him

and he liked girls

But there was this one girl

he kinda liked too much.

Sometimes he even thought he loved her

but young people often mistake desperation with love

and that ain’t too good.

So there was Danny

and that girl...

let’s call her Daisy.

Daisy was a pretty young lady

with golden hair

and little freckles on her nose.

She also was kind of a bitch.

But that’s okay;

let’s forgive her.

Daisy liked that Danny liked her.

But basically Daisy liked boys.

All the boys.

And boys liked her.

Danny was smart and tall

and didn’t like to shave;

which was good

because we like bearded boys.

He also was kind of a writer

which meant he scribbled on little notes

and papers

and wanted to be like Hemingway

but with less drinking

and more beard.

As Danny was falling in love with Daisy

he started writing about her all the time.

He worshipped the waterfalls in her eyes.

He blessed the angels for her shining smile.

He thanked Satan for the curves on her body.

Daisy was used to being adored

but Danny was the first boy who wrote her stuff.

They sat on a bench for hours

while he read her the odes to Her he created daily.

She sparkled and gave him lustful smiles

and he melted

because she was the Goddess, the Princess,

the Empress in his imaginary kingdom of Diasies.

One sunny Saturday morning

Danny woke up early fresh and clean.

He made his morning cup of tea

and sat on the porch in the warm light.

Then he had a marvelous thought:

‘I want to thank the Universe

for this beautiful day;

for the Nature around me

and for the most perfect girl I’ve ever seen.’

He smiled and took his pen.

“She is my Muse.”

And while Danny was writing love poems for Daisy,

she was fucking on the backseat of Jimmy’s van. 

V.