For Brent, Feeling Down

Do not wish for that terminal
disease, stop plotting your
demise to open cruel editors' eyes.
You must get up, escape her rank jaws
and write away – your greatest poems
float and shimmer in that hyena's groin
and she's not done gurgling you flesh
just yet. You think she's laughing –
No, she's slurping, choking in delight
three gulps from your soul.
God made you allergic for a
reason, he warns warns warns,
he wants you to survive.
We all chant for your survival.
It's not about prestige and impressive
alumni notes, it's not about securing
an adjunct position that pays less
than folding sweaters at the Gap.
It's about going on,
conquering, not being snuffed by
something that licks her own ass.
It's about prancing on that ugly dog's corpse,
sticking her head on a stick and ride
ride ride her to that temp job, give her a little
pat and collate collate collate.
Smirk smirk smirk see
your wounds closing,
you're feeling like a man again.
Bring her back to your apartment and
skull fuck skull fuck skull fuck.