You can't sing and you aren't beautiful or smart or witty, I've never heard you say a funny thing. You talk too loud and you talk too much. You play sexy with a cross-eyed, snot-nosed tongue licking out the side of your mouth like it's going for ear, voodoo doll face and you have this odor that I can't rightly compare to anything on earth and it sits in the back of my throat like mayonaise. I gag on the air that comes out of your lungs like it splits all the good air and shoots right for my life. You gang bang the simple sentiment with child-like enthusiasm, stealing everything perfect from perfection and then your blush makes everyone feel guilty for wanting you dead. You keep showing up late just when everyone is certain that you didn't hear about the occasion and then apologize for being late and play so sweet we have to all suffer in silence.
You make fashion designers drink. heavily. You make me crazy. You are always smiling and you are always laughing and you find this fucking grace to the people who are mocking you and you forgive them by going to the bathroom to cry. You make me sit next to you and I can't stop walking beside you and you walk in front of traffic without noticing traffic so that I throw myself in front of traffic and then you throw yourself in front of me who was throwing myself in front of you.
What is that you find so worthwhile about the world, silly girl? Why do you get out of bed and leave the house and call me from the false pretense with such idiotic sincerity? You have to be stupid to be happy in this world. I am so smart. I want to thorn vine my throat and jump off the crown of the earth and catch in the eyelids of the atmosphere so my neck snaps just before I lose gravity and I slip from the blue eye like a tear.
But then who would protect you? Who would remind you that they aren't laughing with you, they are laughing at you? Who would be there to tell you exactly what you are capable of and be embarrassed for you when you try to do more? How would you know that they aren't being sincere, that they don't love you and they will never love you. Without me, my love, you might not even notice that they're there.
Yes, baby, they are. And they hate us.
Don't you do it. Don't do it, Esmerelda. Don't you turn into something beautiiful right before my eyes, I want to fist fuck my funeral procession. Don't you make me smile and slip duct the black-eyed night time with some kind of fantastic foreign feeling that I can't put into words.
Don't you point out the beautiful music and the funny little bits and the wide shots of epic moments in crummy american/italian/french/Indian/Iranian apartments of simple human talking, humans like you and me. Don't you do it, don't do it, Esmerelda. The happiness of children in Egypt make giggles and nervous glance but to spite me, though it does quite excite me when you talk about it and show me the pictures and you get me everytime with your beautiful voice and your beautiful face and the way you wear those rags and got damn it all to hell, you've done it again, because you know how I hate to be negative and how it tears the peace of mind right out my mind to use the lord's name in vain and I guess I was just raised that way and I do hold on to those silly, silly supersticions and I want for there to be a happy ending and it kills me, you know it does, to end it any other way, and I'll never do that to the world.
No, I would never do that to the world. Don't you say that the world wouldn't do it to me. Don't do it, Esmerelda. I have written them, and not they, me.
Makes perfect sense.
Think I said something stupid. I didn't mean to offend. Think I must have done something foolish, yes I did it again, Esmerelda. I think I felt a little bit awkward and tried to better everything by distracting the attention of the sleeping ciritcs by dropping a stack of plates. I don't really think I write the world, I'm not really talking to a particular girl, that's a lie, I'm always talking to one particular girl, I just change your name and hide you from them like you hide yourself from me and could it be, could it be, of course, of course, it's you, stupid bitch, from the floor of this ditch in that halo of moonlight I was so right about you and would take the beating five million times over for the soft of your hot cunt upon the first slip in. Let me say that again, I would take the beating five million times over for the soft of your hot cunt upon the first slip in o' my throbbing cock with a heartbeat beating on it's own in that cyclone pussy with funnel suction, I read every word of the introduction and the author's notes and the translator's favorite quotes but I still think he wrote you all wrong and that fucker gonna ghost gaze dawn with the smoking hole in the forehead of a body, spirit gone, for every word he said about you.
Because every word he said was true.
What else am I to do?
Something green and spring and there goes the ice age.
- ► 2012 (76)
- ► 2011 (74)
- ► 2010 (125)
- Two Poems by Joseph Veronneau
- FEW GOOD MEN by Ford Dagenham
- The Way Things Happen by William Taylor Jr.
- Two Poems by Suzy Devere
- No Name 2 by Zach King-Smith
- Two Poems by Rob Plath
- The Lone Wolf by Karl Koweski
- WE MUST BE CAREFUL / TROUBLE WITH DEATH IS TIMING ...
- Don't Do It, Esmerelda by Chris Malaise
- Breathing Seems Unnecessary by Miriam Matzeder
- ▼ April (10)