Three Men

This kid, he needs:

To wash his balls. They smell like old chlorine. He turns his chair and wind blows wafting, slowly in my sad direction. It enters my mind and makes me quiver, from my hairs to the nails on my toes. He swings back around and the stench is gone. I can hardly take anything more.

This guy, he needs:

To brush his teeth. They smell of bitter coffee. It’s sat on his tongue all day long, waiting for Listerine. It filters through his dry flesh of lips and whispers to the hairs of my nose. Like a foreign gas it enters the chamber where the scent makes its humble abode. It makes me cough, it makes me gag. I’d move if it wasn’t too rude.

This thug, he needs:

To shut his mouth. It just keeps yapping on. About violence this, about violence that. I’m sure he isn’t jesting. He’s got those looks, a little threatening, y’know those evil eyes. They look at you on your insides, finding the wires for breaking. I’d say ‘shut it’ if I wasn’t too scared.

written 3/16/2011