Thursday, June 02, 2005

The Sum of all Slugs

Strangle me with the right intestinal casing.
You could be the sum of all slugs,
or just the salt to weak to singe.

I don’t know
if the moth eaten sweater earned that title
or was designed by hands
to delicate for anything less
than store-bought dirt
and stocking caps
with cartoon skulls embroidered on the felt.
If you are sleeping in the gutters
because you have a warm enough blanket
to protect you from any side effects
of the choice we made.
If we are no better.

But we are,
because we wear our sludge with pride
and let the bulk of it
encrust all of our being.

This is no weekend.
This is no joy.
This is more than sparkling word play.

This is every ounce of hate,
absorbed from lesser men,
spawned from a gift-wrapped paranoia
you’ve only referenced
in your lonely miserable existence.

Laugh off your life
like you’ve laughed me off.
It’s a bad joke anyway.

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