Wednesday, March 31, 2010

For Him And You

You don’t hit her, but you might as well,
She wants you to.
Your petulant, tactless spirit
Demands that you batter her
With weapons heavier than hands
And she will wait for more
Because your hatred protects her.

She hides from love in you.
Neither of you are capable of anything
Except greed, hysteria, and mutual desperation.
She’s capable of nothing but dinner and pussy
While she counts the pennies in her head.
You are my befuddled violent proxy
And I give you permission
To straddle her like a tombstone
And humor her with the pale flare
Of your love.
If you haven’t hit her, you might as well.
There is no blow that she cannot take
And there is nothing she will not do
To preserve the safety she finds
In your dull-witted, hateful heart.

I wish someone would hit me
Or that murder could end this poem.
I would have them fling my black heart
Over the ramparts of your memory
To hungry dogs on the other side.
And, yes, you would burn
But not nearly as much as me.
I should die like no other
For this poem
And for the crime of ever wanting your love.

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