Aquanut On The Borderline

Sitting at your basement blogger bench --
attacking successful women with two names.
Duct tape covering his nose --
greasy fingers grabbing more moldy peanuts.
Hiding from the cold sun --
Watching as the successful candidates run.
Feeling like a dead dick --
tearing off pieces of hair implants.

Pink headband cold --
a jogging man wandering lonely.
Marking time
the only way he knows.
Ego hurting bad,
as he ignores his dog's turds --
he goes down to the blog
and warms his nuts.

Feeling alone --
the deputy's up the road
an escort out the door and
duct tape on the face.
Mr. Peanut my friend --
you whine away so easy
you poor wing nut, you see, it's only me.

Do you still remember
the mustard that is me --
when the ice that
clings on to your heart in
John Birch agony.
And you type your rambling idiocracy
with rotted plywood sounds,
and the school board elections bring
madness in the spring.