Monday, April 27, 2015

below the belt.

can you see true love? it has grown

into a big planet

it is not even gaseous
it could kick jupiter's ass.

it's bigger than jupiter, one vast silhouette-

the biggest clump of mass
around.

i'm puzzled as to how this came to be.
was it true love's dream to live

and not ever die,

at least until the sun was ready
to part from its atrophy?
did true love

simply just go for its dream
and all had come true? was it suprised?

was it a birthday party suprise? did it
pop out of a cake-
icing and ass and tits?
was it a spell that worked out

expanding beyond earth
without repercussions

for screwing with the order of nature?

fuck this.
i do not need to figure out this bullshit.

this true love shit is not a clause
listed under
the rule of the sun.

my poor, poor sun did not know
true love was a prankster, without remorse
for human life.

true love was a hell of a liar.

it had to be
good at lying.
good lying was all true love had going for itself.

and now that i know, i light fire, fire, fire.

i do not need red lipstick
on the flesh of my face. smear this.

you do not need it on yours,
nor do you need it on your bone.

what we need is a baby
from the side of a street- something

to refer to as "it"- a by-product
of our twisted shit-

or i'm off to your jugular with the word of divorce.

knife to your neck, we're going to
take that baby in and throw it off.
here is your beautiful life, we will say,

as if a happily ever after deal. and here are your

two idiot parents
ripping it the fuck up.

in a lucid dream, hamlet comes to speak.

what ever are those two thinking? says he.

they do not think, methinks, not
with those plastic bags

choking the circulation of blood
from their bobbling heads.

they run around like chickens with their
heads chopped off, functioning

headless
chickens.

this one heard the other say to so-and-so, whom
that one had slept with- don't

tell us all "no"-
that the baby would have been better off

if left on the side of the streets
for dead.

yes. boil, boil, i want this soap opera
to overflow.
look at me giggle with warts on my nose.

he does not need lipstick
on the flesh of his bone.

they are both now in this alone.
chop off that pecker. let piss

be the sky.

let me down, and down, down, down

you go.