quick poems based on phoebe bridgers new album song titles pt 5

 Bobby

Eclectic guitar plays you off.
The music always gets louder when you walk away,
Maybe just to fill the space you took up.
Even when you insist you can’t sing 
I’ll make you come to karaoke anyway.
Off topic, but I want to learn piano again 
If not to entertain you
Then to give you something to dance to.
You’re sweet, I say
While tasting you, earthy and austere.
You know what you’ll do,
So I’ll just follow you. 

quick poems based on phoebe bridgers new album song titles pt 4

 The governors waltz

Fuck Phil Scott! 
We all drink
Hoping he falls.

Two left feet
And worn down
Ugly boat shoes.

You try not 
To step on
My toes. But 
You’ve never been
A good dancer.

You step three
Steps back, I 
Try to keep up.

Fuck Phil Scott!
We drink more
Bottom shelf vodka.

quick poems based on phoebe bridgers new album song titles pt 3

 
Kill me

The dread will kick in soon. 
Each sonnet needs a Volta.
The glares will sometimes loom,
That’s what I always told you. 

You didn’t smell the citrus
That made me lose my cool,
Maybe I should smoke less
Or maybe you’re just cruel.

When the speakers pounded
And the bass made my heart shake
I gazed all around
And decided it’s time to wait.

LISTEN, LISTEN, LISTEN, LISTEN.
The STRANGER isn’t ME
LISTEN, LISTEN, LISTEN, LISTEN,
I think you might just miss me.

Don’t tell me I’m mistaken,
I was just tired of waiting.

quick poems based on phoebe bridgers new album song titles pt 2

 Lost boys

He got a buzzcut right after his thirteenth birthday.
I pretended I didn’t see it, your teenage rebirth,
When you spent minutes at the dining table and 
Hours with a microphone. Yelling until the cold,
Comfortable hours of the night, or until dad told you
To shut the fuck up. 
He feels bad when he doesn’t believe you,
But the anger is a symptom.
The pharmacist loves us, 
But sometimes I wish they’d mix our prescriptions up.

quick poems based on phoebe bridgers new album song titles pt 1

 The outside

I watched you kick him in the face.
He spat blood onto your lacy white socks.
Your feet are smaller than his head, 
You have to be a size six.
I’m frozen in place now, so is he.
There’s a tooth jammed into your left maryjane.
The flasher sleeps in a twin bed 
And doesn’t have anything to keep his feet warm.
You wore those socks to your first communion.
You’re the closest thing he has to 
A permanent mark made.
Except the ones he left with those other girls,
But they’re all watching from inside.