You picked her up
At the mall last night,
Not demon,
human-
A walking Hot Topics ad-
On daddy's credit
card.
(She claims her name's Tarantula.)
Her nonstop Gothic
Teenqueen chatter
Drives you spare,
But
you don't give a fuck-
It drowns out the noise
In your empty
head
Better than the rain does.
Harmony in Doc Martins,
You can't be seen alone-
Not
now.
Buffy's given you the sack;
What's-her-face fills the
gap-
In pre-torn fishnet stockings.
So you crash Anya's wedding,
Goth-girl clings,
The rain
bringing out
Her odor.
Buffy's near-
All is
forgotten,
Especially whozits.
In her lime green dress,
Buffy sees right through
you,
Darkchylde a pathetic mask,
The Slayer strolls away
unscathed-
Leaving you alone once more,
Albatross 'round your
neck.
You wander out
Into the rain-
Wanna-be asking why,
You
glare down at her,
What's her name again?
Frightened, she
cringes,
Sullen pose abandoned.
Nothing more than
Daddy's girl,
On Daddy's credit
card,
Nameless, pointless,
A silly gesture-
She isn't what
you want.
You turn away
And flee below;
Stormwater rushing by,
In
the stinking darkness,
Buffy was right-
The sewers are
Where
you belong.