k-hole (poem a day 13)

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it felt like Sunday on a Tuesday


and she felt fucking useless,
snorting her worries
in a mythically dug hole


she was scouring imagined tyrants
for the iris of the crisis,
a likeness
she could pin it all on,


a scapegoat in the lineup
who once saved her from this violence,
I just happened
to be the one she'd pull


she kept screaming absurdities about
George Berkeley burning apple trees
while he stuffed his face
with salted sardines and how she'd
suddenly been stabbed
in a dark brick alley


but when the neck finally broke
in that dysfunctional tongue,
she snuck a sardonic grin
and fetched behind the ottoman
so to strike my skull
with a bottle of rum


I awoke the next morning
with some blood on the rug
and I never saw her again
nor my wallet
nor my gun


 


(this is completely fictional, based on a drug called Ketamine that I read about recently)

Created: Apr 13, 2014

Tags: poetry, poem a day, k-hole

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