you were the type of girl to read Ayn Rand
thinking o what good ideas in this Fountain
I was the type of who'd join a tontine
and play Russian roulette with self
till dead from cop killer bullet to head
or encourage co-conspirators
bury me 6 feet deep

you decried what joy there is in order
I cried out swollen summer sadness
what joy (is there at any joy at all)
in this madness

pointing out the chaos of everything
order in chaos is wishful thinking
for apes liking everything in neat little
wax paper wrapped deli packages

your satisfaction is my dismay
yet I cannot look away
wash me clean after
I sully you suddenly with
sickly sullen pallid mess