oughtism (21)

“maturity” he says, another slick
knife fight you’re not prepared
to lose

he saws you in half to prove
his disenchantment
and leaves a greasy hangnail
buried in your gut

and there’s nothing for it, the fetor and fracas
of insides that reach up like the vatic entrails
of holy polemics

there’s nothing for it, the sand and sound
of your enumerated fury

in the orange,
he leaves you to swallow your gumption
bitter like the rind.

(but swallow you do
and be grateful)

“maturity” he says, another shriek
of the wrist wherein everything is
fine.


8.31.16

Things are going well.

 

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