Irritation (You might recognize the source)
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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