on a silver platter




Let me tell you something you don't want to hear:


I am caustic, I am mordant,
I am that thousand-year-old, bottled-up scream you've got—
Pent up, nearly-beaten but not,
And I am ready to hurt you (stab, gut, murder you in your sleep)
If I could only remember.

And when I do (remember, that is)
I hope you're still here,
Because I sincerely wish that you don't regret,
Last chance comes, take or leave.


And then there's this other side of me,
The part that's hidden—veiled—concealed,
With marks and cruxes and other things,
That you will probably not want to see,
Or feel (but you will, this I am thinking).

And then there's the final slice of me,
The third moiety,
The side, portion (disproportion) that reeks of venom,
And stinks of poison,
And that's the side that tells you what you want,
To hear.

Because you see,
I've got it all figured out,
After all these years where the music rings,
And the muses sing,
And corpses are piled up one-by-one, filed throughout the years (by pickled fears and mutilated ears)
I've got it all figured out.


You can never make a man right,
And the woman is lost—hopeless—from the beginning out,
And that leaves you nowhere to be,
Because what am I? What are you?
Why are you here?
In desolate, in disconsolate, in tragedy & travesty,
Here, the brink, the edge, the very verge,
Before we meet.

And you might be asking,
What is this?
Tirade, diatribe, jeremiad and other long-lengthy prosaic guttural sighs,
Am I trying so very, very hard to make me sound oh-so smart,
So the wit, will make you think high and lordly of me,
So the cryptic—the triptych—the pretentious tricolon,
Stolen pithy (adages), and words all a-swollen,
Am I enlarged and fattened, then?

Like water-gorged wombs,
Or saturated dresses—hanging from five stories up,
From where you stand,
With sun in your eyes and parasol at hand,
You wave off me and dispel charms,
Because now you realize, now you see,
I am not here to play pretend or regale you with—
My incontestable flare (the fires that burn even in absence of air).

Now, this is when I state my point,
Make it clear, make it sheer (for you, my dear)
So you can understand,
Even with your stupidity and ignorance and whatnot others that make you human-less,
My forever-denying, always-demanding lioness,
You will never know who I am, what I am,
And so long as this has been declared and done and said, you can stay.

For just a while.


So let me tell you something you don't want to hear:

Here is not where you belong. Here, I am detesting you (secretly). Surreptitious, like a snake ready to feast.

And so, you go. Away and far from me, where you'll be all smug and fine and dreaming of your own sanguine Auld Lang Syne.