I am a colossal
heaping mash of
gorilla shit
gently
roasting in a
raging dumpster fire.
I know you
are too, but
I will criticize
myself since it is
considered intolerant and oppressive
to be as
rude as your
mother, may she rest in peace,
and by peace I mean
getting syringes
filled with lemon juice
shoved under her coiled claws.
Do I have your attention now?
Good.
You’re talking to a poem.
Fuck you.
You took my
kids away from me,
gave them a piggy-back ride
and camped in a forest
on the opposite coast.
Now all I can do
is drink
until the mosquitoes avoid my blood,
until my liver quits and the bile
starts to accumulate
at the back of my throat,
clogging my airway.
Is this how these things work?
Do I drowned in my self-pity until the
audience applauds?
I needed to get a hobby
to keep my mind away
from plotting your demise
where I find my Nemos
and that dentist’s brat of a niece dies.
Goddamn.
This is boring.
Is this really how people choose to
cope with their shit?
Sit and write?
There are no fucking results!
You know what my kids did?
They jousted with giant sticks
and had so much fun that
they forgot it hurt
to get hit with a big-ass stick.
I tried picking up origami
but that turned into me
imagining you flattened
folding your paper bones
and tossing my mess into the fire place.
I tried collecting baseball cards
only to envision me
with a bloody bat
and you
missing your face.
I tried building
my dreams out of
Legos
but my foot kept being punctured
by the pieces I left forgotten
in our shag rug.
So I took up drinking
when my adult grew up.
And this is where I bow
for playing the part of
a tall kid in a tree suit.
Back then, I drank to feel alive.
Now, as you know, I drink to forget that we’re shit.
But very soon, I will just drink
and black-out the days I drink to die.
Aside from that,
it’s a wonderful day
to complain.
Now stop reading this and fly a
damn kite or something.
And now, Mr. Fucking Therapist,
give me my fucking
participation award!