I feel pretty sick knowing you’ll be a part of my art. My poems have you in them like a metallic aftertaste. A hint of nuts. Did you put vermin in this fricassee? Some people put God in their poems but with me it’s always you. You’re the inky air in the corner that congeals like bad music. No, I don’t want to listen to that song. Just put it on “shuffle” for Chrissakes. You sit there in the crack on the wall and scrunch your body at me. You’ll ruin your posture but you’re not really there. It’s a metaphor. It’s what poets do when they hate you as much as I do: You blast my taste buds away from the ordinary and force me to talk about you in euphemisms. Or dysphemisms in this case. God, I don’t freaking know. You just make me angry! “I’ll treat you to dinner.” *******, go treat yourself to the bottom of a lake.
I told you you were black space in the walls, but I’ve opened a window. Weren’t expecting that, were you? Still, perhaps you’re too utterly utter to suffer the flutter of the breeze. I’m going out. And believe you me pal, you’d better be gone by the time I get back.
Even though I know you’re not really there. It’s the principle of the thing.