You are a completely contemporary caveman. Fleshy body covered with matted hair. Eyes covered with ancient sleep and an American Spirit hangs from between your chapped lips. Slingshot tucked in your back pocket and you can’t figure out how to use that iPhone I bought you for Christmas. I tell people you love Halloween so much you wear that costume year round. I don’t know. They might just think you’re homeless.
The way you stabbed the Thanksgiving turkey at my mom’s house last year. I had to remind you it was already dead. Sometimes you let me throw a flannel around your shoulders and as I button it up your chest I realize just how animalistically sexy you look. Your hair is actually quite lovely. Thick, shiny, shoulder length. It must be that raw meat diet you’re on. I admit, at first it was a little difficult watching you eat my pet cat, Sugar-tits. But after a while I got used to you hunting strays in the alley outside our apartment.
You are an extraordinarily contemporary caveman. The way your eyebrows pensively touch above the arch of your nose. Shaggy in a way that could be considered unkempt. But it’s not. You’re pre-contemporary homeless chic. The original. The best. Your birthday is on Boxing Day. You’re Canadian. I love Canada.
You are an animal on the drum set. Head thrashing with each beat. The crowd thought it was intense when you bit into your drumstick. I knew better so I went outside and caught a rat under my hat. After your set you ate it in the bathroom, washed down with toilet water. What do you care about germs? You’re my pre-soap post-anti-antibacterial gel using caveman, Caveman. My carnivorous contemporary caveman. My hot and hairy and handsome homosapien.
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