Your Punishing Disguise

Here's where the horse's hooves dig

deep into the dust,

and you say:

"Fuck it. I'm done"

No more of this pussy-footing around

when the clouds are at my back,

and the shift is taking it's course.

You crush your cig under your heel,

and smash the face

of the next train-wreck who tries in their misguided way

to scrawl a smile into your stonehedge...

God, they get

so fucking tired

in their century old approach...

Just like an ancient broach

in some shoddy vintage store

some dead grandmother left behind,

that everyone dutifully ignores

because it fouls up the atmosphere

with it's rank odor,

and it's hideous design...

Fuck that shit,

it's neither yours or mine

to bother with...

Most probably possessed

with an evil spirit

that anyone with any lick of sense

would turn tail, and leave in a trail of their dust...

Why are you still rusting in his brittle arms, my love?...

His ignorance abounds,

and he stands there in the same place when you come home

like a coat rack

for your rain jacket to hang upon, and drip, drip...

The fucker has a hard-on

for your punishing diguise...

©

8/5/20

Alessa Cleanse