Opus 13
The world is spinning
and you refuse to fall off.
Yesterday,
you stabbed a crooked finger
into my hidden diary
criticized my Fascist inflections -
debated my scribblings
on Marxism,
noted the notations
indicating Munchausen by Proxy
and then
choked and lamented
upon vague references I made
concerning Virginia Woolf,
Sylvia Plath,
Anne Sexton,
Cruella De Vil
and Hitler.
You literally littered through
my private Pandora’s box
of personal prose and poetry -
with an unbridled
crazed compulsion
and without my
permissible permission.
Pointing to bold typed words,
such as “ebony”
and “vacuous”
and “sociopath”
and the one
you couldn’t evenly pronounce –
“phlegmatic.”
You stomped your hot heavy hooves -
screaming with the dire urgency
of a rape victim:
“What the hell are you talking about?”
It didn’t take very long before
I simply shrugged,
slugged the remaining remains
of my Rolling Rock,
took your index finger
guided it across
your ratted sweater
and placed it
upon your
hopeless,
hapless
heart.
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