A Poem Toy
I don't have toys
And I don't care for any of them either.
Well no, I do. After the death
Of my friend Dasvina Lee and I loved for a Baby doll.
I asked to my mother if she could buy
One for me with the next C.F.W.C.P. check.
She stopped backward; and at first
I got the idea she will be buzzing around
The house looking for a cigarette butt
'Cause she has ran off cigarettes.
And then she bent forward
And stared at me as you stare at yourself out
Into the mirror browsing your stomach
Upon a hushed thought, and a human fist as a bad sword
Like that, exploded: "Shutta **** off, stupid girl!"
And then, right on, she pushed me.
Like that, and she said, "Go and clean up this
Mess! Now!"
"You can play with yourself," she added
Brutally, "if you're so goddammit lonely!"
Though she never really made it so easy
Just a sort of wet concrete admiration,
I tried to smooth it, but the following was uglier:
After a third try she hit me again. It was like a
Thunder light, burning on the skinny body
And at the same time it was running through a hybrid
Shore between my soul and my heart.
Leaving no doubt it was all what I'll get
From her and the damned toy shall be called
Off.
Copyright © George Zamalea | Year Posted 2012
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