Your veins, the blood
That oozes is always
A shock of crimson red.
And when you hang yourself,
Your neck will crack.
Body will bulge, covered in
Excreta you'll stink.
There's nothing called
A poetic end.
There's no refinement
To the crudity of it.
It will hold your face in
Its hands and stare you
Like Anthracite coal-
The blackness of it will
Stick its tongue to make
Your throat thick- pull your
Intestine to choke you on
Your own breath and
Command you to count
Numbers in reverse.
So when the next time
One of those poets tries to
Serve you pain in an
Ornate thali-
Hiding the crude redness
And snapped neck of it-
Between the shades of
Water Lilies and Bougainvillea pink.
Take a moment to reconsider
The romanticism.
Either give him a hug to
Absolve him from his
Own pain. Or better
Kick on the nuts
Till he clenches his gut.
For caricaturing pain into
Cute dolls to plant them
In people's minds like
Time bombs.
That oozes is always
A shock of crimson red.
And when you hang yourself,
Your neck will crack.
Body will bulge, covered in
Excreta you'll stink.
There's nothing called
A poetic end.
There's no refinement
To the crudity of it.
It will hold your face in
Its hands and stare you
Like Anthracite coal-
The blackness of it will
Stick its tongue to make
Your throat thick- pull your
Intestine to choke you on
Your own breath and
Command you to count
Numbers in reverse.
So when the next time
One of those poets tries to
Serve you pain in an
Ornate thali-
Hiding the crude redness
And snapped neck of it-
Between the shades of
Water Lilies and Bougainvillea pink.
Take a moment to reconsider
The romanticism.
Either give him a hug to
Absolve him from his
Own pain. Or better
Kick on the nuts
Till he clenches his gut.
For caricaturing pain into
Cute dolls to plant them
In people's minds like
Time bombs.
No comments:
Post a Comment