Monday, September 30, 2013

DONTCHA JUST HATE IT


when birthdays,
or anniversaries,
deaths and marriages,
Christmas or sickness,
is comin round
and the person you just had
a fight with,
a parting of the ways with,
a sickness that infests your soul with,
a hole that dug deep with,
in your heart with,
past the point
of exasperation with,
so that if you never see them again with,
or talk with,
or sleep in that trickster mind of yours with,
(that prick)
(that cunt)
is too soon
and is soon
comin up?

Fuck
being madly in love.
Fuck being
just mad.
Just fuck
being.

No,
you say,
I ain't doin it--
Fuckem;
Fuckher;
I ain't callin
or writtin
or sendin any
goddamn thing
his or her
goddamn way.
It's better
that it's over
and they should know that;
they need to be trained
to know that.
It's over,
it's kinder
it's better
really better
for both of us but
especially me.
They had their goddamn chance,
more than a chance
I gave them
to change.
If they don't wanna change,
fuck them,
it's on them,
it's over them,
above them
around them
and through them.

They'll survive.
Everyone survives.
(But maybe...)
No, fuck that.
They'll survive.
And I'll survive.
And I'll survive
better and be better
for it.
(But maybe...)
Fuck that
and fuck you.
(But...)
I don't give a shit;
they're cruel and selfish
and narcissistic; stupid
really. Dumb.
They can be so thick.
Goddamn dense.
They don't deserve a prize
like me; they piss on it,
break it,
casually toss it
away, shit on it
and wipe their ass
with my love.
Enough.
They're impossible,
nutty
crazy
neurotic
probably psychotic
and expect me to just go along
to get along--
soft easy me
making compromises
so often I don't know
who me is
anymore.

No,
I must be strong,
resist it,
and it will pass
and I'll be free
of him
of her
of it;
I will be free--if
I get by the next few weeks,
maybe month.
They'll learn,
they'll learn.
I'm no one
to trifle with.

Only the laughing bones
remain beside the trestle
that brought the two lovebirds
nesting. The bodies gather
rigor, the smiles frozen.
And somewhere
in the distant hills
a gospel singer moans
for her lost congruents.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2013

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