In Response To Your Love Poem On The Stairs

August 16th, 2013

Story originally written and experienced: August 8th 2013

I love romantic shit.

But sometimes I ruin it…

Like the time I did this:

The other day I was commuting home from a long day of work, purposely pit-stopping to purchase a few cookies and a little milk along the way.

But only because

I never buy the damn combo.

And today it just sounded so damn good.

He gets it.

He gets it.

Once I was fresh with purchases and breaching the steps of my abode, I reached the front door

retrieved the key to my lair, stuck it >> in the door and turned

it just the right amount.

And then I saw it right away.



A small, white piece of paper. Lazily sitting on the steps. Only











when the door opened. And when the door closed.

My hands were currently filled with snacks. But my curiosity had full confidence in my juggling capabilities, and compelled me to pick up the mysterious paper in spite of my freeless hands. And then I read it. And it said this:

(P.S. Hello cookie)


Fuckin beautiful.



Any normal human would be like “lolol that’s real nice.”

Walk the fuck away. Eat cookies. And never think about the damn thing again.

And then you encounter people like…me. Who rather, snap pictures of the spontaneous nonsense and concoct absurd stories about them for no goddamn reason.

None at all.

And it all started when I read the poem.

And I read it again.

And again.

And again.

And eventually the poem almost started sounding like…a conversation.

Like you’re strolling around the work place simply looking to borrow some fuckin office supplies from a co-worker

Need to borrow some shit.

Just gonna borrow this real quick

When suddenly you approach your co-worker and she goes a little rogue after you say…

“Hey Judy! Mind if I grab your stapler for a hot sec?”

And her response goes.

“…The hot, dense breeze on the back of your neck, Olive”

And you get self-conscious like:

Is it really that noticeable?

“…Fuck is it really that noticeable?”


“Like your lover’s breath” she continues

And you’re like:


Leave Dumbledore out of this.

“Moist with love after bed?” she inquires.

Poor Dumbledore.

How the fuck did you know.

“An ambulance’s sirens stimulating”

Silence your emergency,

Simmer down, Judith.


“For some youngster they only hear lights and sounds”

Fuckin LIGHTS.

Sometimes they fuckin freak out.



“To someone else the reminder of a car crash”

Not where I saw that going.

“Kind of just want to grab this stapler and then like…bounce.”

“Crepuscular rays peering”

Only a fool doesn't know what crespicular means. hahaha...haha...brb.

“I can just…ask Phil.”

“From behind an anvil, dark”


“On the bottom but blindingly bright on top.”

Alright cool...I'm just gonna....I'm gonna just...take...this.

“Alright cool…I’m just gonna….I’m gonna just…take…this.”

And then I got to thinking again and then suddenly I was started to wonder what this shit would sound like if I recruited the talented insights of dear friend, Lil’ Wayne. And he said

Just wanted your insights Lil Wayne.


So with the help of my old-time amigo Young Weezy  and an online Ebonic’s translator to assist me with these authentic recommendations. We were able to come up with the following remix:

The hot, dense breeze on the back of your neck

Yo da hot, dense breeze on da back o’ yo’ neck and git Sheniquah’s ass back ova’ heeah.

Retreat, Shaniqua.

Come, Shaniqua.


Like your lover’s breath

Yo like yo’ lovers breaf an don’t make me pull mah gat!

If gat means blackmail then put that shit away.

This gat has gotta go.


Moist with love after bed.

Yo moist wif love afta bed Jus’ like Orenthawl James.

This guy.

This guy.



An ambulance’s sirens stimulating

Yo an ambalance’s sirens bein all loud and I wanna slap that motha fucka.

Silence your emergencies!

Silence your emergencies!


For some youngster they only hear lights and sounds

Yo fo’ some youngster dey only hear lights an’ sounds Don’ make me come ova there bitch.


To someone else the reminder of a car crash

I fuxed up ya car. NEVA FA-GET.

Actually you know what you can forget. You can totally, totally forget.

Actually you know what you can forget. You can totally, totally forget.

Crespuscular rays peering

Keep starin BITCH.

Your wish is my command.

Your wish is my command.



From behind an anvil, dark

There’s a goddamn anvil in tha hood

What's up anvil?

What up anvil?


On the bottom but blindingly bright on top.

You bright as shit.

So bright cut that shit out.

Well-prepared for your brightness.


And finally I read it a 3rd damn time and imagined what it would be like if the author of this poem tried to tell his lover how he felt in person rather than leaving it on the stairs.

 But they’re at a rave.

And the recipient of this poetic romance is fucked up and can’t hear shit.

Leading to a slew of misunderstandings like:


And then the recitation of the poem is a massive failure when he tries to profess his love on the dance floor like:

Hey so, the hot, dense breeze on the back of your neck


What?!? The pot fence cheese on the back of my peck?!


face palm

No no…Like your lover’s breath!

Like your brother's meth??

Like your brother’s meth??



Uh…no I mean like moist with love after bed.

It's like it's trying to speak to me I know it.

“Did you just say joist with gloves after head?”

Jesus christ. An Ambulance’s siren stimulating? No? Nothing?



Who’s with Lance Bass gyrating?


Some dudes.



What I’m trying to say is, for some youngster they only hear lights and sounds

Sooo I'm on a lot of drugs.

I got…for some dumpster they only hear rice and clowns?





To someone else the reminder of a car crash.


What the fuck have I done.

Love that recliner of a bar splash.

So long as

Fuck it. So long as the crepuscular rays keep peering. 

Some extracurriculars and a glazed earring. Got it.

Some extracurriculars and one glazed earring. Boom.

From behind an anvil, dark



From a cheese rind and Manvel shark. 


…On the bottom but blindingly bright on top.

...Well that was unexpected.

…On the higginbottom but sprite at a gift shop. 

Good talk.

Good talk. 


It’s my sincerest hope that this love ballad was able to reach its proper owner. And if said recipient has any translation discrepencies that come along with her first read, I’ll be sure to print out a copy of this full proof guide (and 1/2 a cookie) for her romantic disposal.

Now excuse me while I get on this guy’s level:

He gets it.

Be there shortly.