As a Pisces, my favorite food is the strawberry.
Don’t ask me why, because my raspy voice
will murder your geometric ears. Though I’ll behave
with a subdued yin-yang humility, don’t request
me to be your apartheid comrade. I’d rather box
a grenade in the nude or scribble my blushes with
a bloody cutlass under the moonlit shadow of a widow’s
guesthouse. But back to strawberries: I love
to drink them after a bash and a blend, and massage
the inside of my jaw with their soft privacy. My stomach
feels like a swelled football, and I have the power of twins.
Guns always tempt me—it’s either rape or suicide.
Or grand theft of a thousand doormats. I can elude
the cops all night, slash tires with razors and telephone
the hospital for help, tell them I’ll be an obituary
any day now and all they do is ask my name.
Strawberries. Wafers. Soon I’ll be a bald beak
in a lanky suit, a gnarled memorial to this delicate statue
of arrogance that sits here now, baffled with wonder.
More poetry at Used Furniture.
