Irritation (You might recognize the source) [View all]
His name in my mouth like an ulcer,
spoiling my appetite,
dull and metallic.
It brushes the sharpness of my
teeth with
dazzling pain
when I have to say his
name again
(and somehow I always have to).
The center of attention
he is, like sand in an oyster
making a pearl of
no price.
Am I being too harsh?
No.
This is me,
being nice.
A corpse at every wedding
and a bride at every funeral,
a dull blade at a beheading
and a cover price for a free for all--
a menace to country
and an offense to God
with a bad-fitting suit
and hair so odd
it folds about his skull like a nest
for departed origami cranes.
He could stain a black hole.
If the world were to devour him whole,
I think he would make the crater sick
him up like ipecac
and look none the worse,
and I wish his hearse would be
a fly-ridden sanitation truck.
Fuck! He should greet death
on a prison toilet and be captured
on a million cameras
for the tabloids to devour--
and that's the mildest thing I'd shower him with;
the acid of my words--
not literal vitriol.
And why do I assault him thus?
I must admit.
It calms my soul.
(Kindly disclaimer: this is a flight of poesy for posterity, but between you and me exempting he, you and me agree that he deserves a recognition of the annoyance and disruption he serves. Apocalyptic possibilities emerge whenever his chances surge. Also he gets on my nerves.)
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