Driving down the road
I notice a bump.
Is it a boulder?
Or a pot hole?
Or did I run over the next door neighbors orange tabby cat?
Or does it matter?
I have four-wheel drive and mud tires.
Bump.
I smell manure.
Did you step in it?
Or is it coming from your mouth?
You stinky slob.
Button down shirt
made of flannel
covers the bleeding heart
that is healing from last night’s wound.
You twisted and turned
until blood shot you in the eye and
forced you to regurgitate all the words
you had just said.
Poor,
Stupid,
You.
I sip the merlot
and smile,
as if I give a shit
about all of these people
who peruse my house.
They gorge themselves,
in chocolate, wine, and cheese
rubbing their stomachs.
What a disgusting breed.
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2 comments:
Kacie! I am disturbed...but mostly because I find these hilarious. Good job.
I really like these, Kacie! Not that I'm terribly surprised. I'm just having a hard time writing surrealist poetry. Good job!
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