Poem: My Fucking Story

I want to write like Henry Miller

but I’m too timid, never having uttered

the word cunt before, except referentially

to the term, not speaking of that

special thing I’ve come to know, tangentially

anyway, I’ve made it’s acquaintance

but it hasn’t spilled onto my pages

yet, they’re clogged with oil

and ceremonial masks, tipping bowls

of blood, I silently speak

volumes to myself, about the pain

I endured at the hospital,

in downcast eyes and words

not spoken, I know what I sound like.

 

My brain was damaged

traumatically and I know

I sound like a retard, because

I heard a recording of myself,

sick making of the time I said

it wasn’t me, I don’t sound

like that but I can see you

being curious, if I say

I was in a coma for 6 weeks

after the car accident I almost

didn’t survive you’ll be interested,

and I fuckin’ hate that.

 

I bet you like this poem now,

because it’s honest, but that’s not it

really, that’s what we all call

morbid curiosity, and when you

ask me after if my words

are true, will it excite you

when I tell you they are?

I bet it will, because you are nasty

little pussy ears, aren’t you?

 

I isn’t your fault, though, it is natural

a response to the interest, compounding

double time drama, think of me

in the white prison of smiles

gentle toning, clawing the ceiling

with my eyes, learning to walk

talk and think again, varying degrees

of success, that’s one of the jokes

that made me a hit of the ICU,

also an outpatient superstar

for 6 months, then I went back

to college for 3 years finishing

a useless paper piece, a diploma

I don’t even look at, because I don’t

know where it is, and who cares?

Poem: My Fucking Story

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