For the White Boys Who Believe They Beat Box Well

Oh you asthmatic seal,
you think you box beats
but it’s all herpes; no alcohol
will suppress the outbreak
of your wackness.

Our heads are not balloons.
Though you are a clown,
we do not appreciate you
trying to dry hump us
until we pop.

Yes y’all, you should stop.
There is no ahead here
o bag of dunce hats,
awkward pick up line
at last call;

“Hey baby, my name
is desperate.  The halfway
house of your vagina
wants to rehabilitate me
all night long.”

Strong is our distaste
of the way your face fakes
deep throating two turntables;
human stereo, you are not
worth pawning.

No auto-tune will polish
your organs.  The deaf hold
telethons for your tracheotomy.
Seals twine clubs, your address
to their flippers.

by Jesse Bradley

Return to Issue 35