DJ Dou-Bag

Posted: March 8, 2012 in Burn Poetry
Tags: , , , ,

He’s an X+1 Guy
Where X is equivalent to the times you’ve been laid,
Drinks that you’ve drunk
Or concussions that you’ve had.
Hair gelled up,
A spikey remix of yesteryear’s pompadour,
He calls to mind the arrogance
Of a cock
Moments before being tossed into the ring.
Encyclopedia Douche-tanica:
His expertise is a too-big net.
Spread wide.
Full of holes.
Quantity over quality.
His gluttonous,
Shotgun approach may serve him well
As lethargic Lothario,
Vulture of the “Last Call!” crowd,
The stumbling carrion of the insecure
He’s a DJ on the side,
Or maybe it’s “DJ.”
He puts on a mini-concert,
A forced-march club scene with no survivors,
Trail of Tears-ing my patience,
As he bobs his gelled up half-bro-hawk to the techno
Trance music,
Sans Music,
Playing on his phone.
Rave on a 3G Network
With DJ AT&T
On the decks.
His battery’s running low,
Technology mercifully failing,
Lithium ion charge dropping
Off precipitously,
Necessitates a crashlanding of this impromptu jam session.
Relief breaks like a crystalline wave
Easing over faces,
Unfurrowing brows and un-clutching lips.
The DJ’s show is over.
The mental bow he has taken
Splays across his face in congratulatory smirk.
Looks like there’s another sold out show
Thunderheads gathering.
Oh, shit.



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