How I Imagine it Will Go

My submissions were rejected

with pointed inferences

and a jaundiced turn of phrase.

Sneering and derisive,

as if I had just pulled out my dick

and pissed my first stanzas

across the top of that fine mahogany desk.

 

The idea

Of frittering away more minutes

in the company of stuffy balloon men

and rat-faced hatchet women,

gestated visions of screams

and wanton violence in my mind.

I took my leave abruptly.

 

“You can’t go that way,”

they cried;

“there’s no door!”

 

I laughed maniacally

and smashed out the window

with a brass lamp

too neo-classical to be fashionable.

Antique doesn’t mean good;

It just means old.

 

By now my pen is venomous.

Dry scale, viper pit wisdom

entangling with screeching attacks

from large predatory birds.

Talons tearing

weasel faced rodent flesh.

Did you know,

You can find whole skeletons

in the excrement of owls?

 

Driven mad by aged quackery,

No doubt raped in velvety satin smoothness,

as if Velveeta processed cheese food

lays claim to an aged camembert pedigree;

the sickly sweet perfume of larceny

and prejudice.

 

Perhaps,

I ought to resubmit my manuscript

under an assumed name

and send some wily old pimp

with several of his crackiest whores

in my stead.

That should give my letters

some gritty street cred;

the type lapped up so eagerly

by these tit-suckling beggars…

… perhaps not.

 

Maybe it isn’t worth it.

Maybe I just keep writing

and writing

and writing

and whoever reads these words

will be my benefactor;

my savior.

and my soul mate.

 

HG – 2017

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