Jigglypuff: a Simon Cowell shitpost

Patrick Crowley

I didn’t make it as a singer:
choked on American Idol
and put Simon Cowell to sleep,
even while singing both voices of “Love Shack.”
They couldn’t even air it caus he didn’t get to roast me,
so I’ve had to settle for singing drunks to sleep
night after night at Persian’s,
no love left in that shack,
forced by my boss to wear this thin, lacy top
squeezed around my puffy, pink
body, but at least my jar,
with
“will jiggle for tips”
written in black ink,
is always boasting a handful of singles.
 
I didn’t make it as a tattoo artist:
caus . . . drew dicks on Simon Cowell’s face that day
and he decimated me over Twitter
— it was super effective —
so the only commissions I got were for
Simon Cowell Facedicks
which weren’t large enough to pay well,
and so I can’t afford an apartment
big enough for my balloonity.
 
I didn’t even cut it as a Super Smash Bro:
too much of Nintendo’s stock owned by
Simon Cowell
for them to risk showing favor to Jiggly Dickface.
Only the prettier, pinker, less somniferous Jigglypuffs
get to cash in on that payday anyways,
pocketing enough gold coins
to afford Master Ball apartments,
let alone getting to sing to Pikachu all damn day.
 
Now, my tight red and white walls click shut every night,
my dim Pikachu lamp, its tail glowing softly,
illuminates my small circle of space
littered with old Poké
Bean wrappers,
dirty laundry, dried out black pens,
and inked up posters of Simon Cowell’s face.
 
I ignore these, and look only into Pikachu’s soft,
plastic eyes, wishing for a real one to cuddle,
to sing to sleep so I’d never have to give them up.
I listen to my neighbors’
creaking bed
through my thin walls,
knowing I’d never meet a Pikachu
willing to settle for a washed-up Jigglypuff,
even if I’d never let them down.
 
Staring at my domed, red ceiling, surrounded by my pity,
I pull on my cigarette,
inflating all the way to finish it in one drag,
pull out my green microphone and open my mouth as
my background music materializes from the ether,
and think of my high school auditorium:
 
a hundred of my peers listening to me
(before I learned to put people to sleep)
(before I lost the passion to keep them awake)
and I see their smiling, Simon-Cowell-dickless faces
while my neighbors bang on my walls
telling me to “shut my fairy mouth.”
Instead I shut my eyes,
and sing myself to sleep,
Zzz’s floating from my head,
my face covered with
a black-ink smile.