Tonight's Poet Corner: Panic Attack! At The Disco

Panic Attack! At The Disco
by Belinda Roddie

I've been friendly to the point that
the nausea is stronger than the rum
in my drink, and louder than the shitty
music that the DJ pounds into everyone's
inebriated egos. The "small talk" meter in

my brain is so full that the red mercury
is leaking out of my cerebral cortex and
into the coiled stairwells of my spine, poisoning
me, paralyzing me. Shallow, shallow words.
Gossip, gossip, gossip. She said and did you know
and wait until he and so what do you think I don't
want to think motherfucker I want to leave. I want to

steal a fucking taxi off the corner of madness and
sanctuary and drive it across the bridge before
it falls down, my fair lady. I want to order two
pizzas from the safety of my rundown apartment
and eat so much that when I sweat, I smell
like pepperoni and garlic. I want to leave behind
all the bars and cigarette corners and karaoke breaks
where Tone-Deaf Tom makes sure everyone else's
ears feel the same agony that his do on a daily basis.
I want quiet. I want serenity. And I want extra cheese.

So, yeah, sorry if I'm not listening when your
girlfriend sobs into her vodka shot so it tastes
more like salt than burning. Sorry that I'm not
interested in the latest sports spiel where 'roided
brats punch each other in the jaw hard enough
to knock out every gold tooth screwed into their
big mouths. And don't be pissy if your whining
gets too grating for my soul. Just stick your thumb
in your mouth, suck on it, and stew, stew, stew.