Irritation (You might recognize the source)

His name in my mouth like an ulcer,

spoiling my appetite,

dull and metallic.

It brushes the sharpness of my

teeth with

dazzling pain

when I have to say his

name again

(and somehow I always have to).

The center of attention

he is, like sand in an oyster

making a pearl of

no price.

Am I being too harsh?

No.

This is me,

being nice.

A corpse at every wedding

and a bride at every funeral,

a dull blade at a beheading

and a cover price for a free for all--

a menace to country

and an offense to God

with a bad-fitting suit

and hair so odd

it folds about his skull like a nest

for departed origami cranes.

He could stain a black hole.

If the world were to devour him whole,

I think he would make the crater sick

him up like ipecac

and look none the worse,

and I wish his hearse would be

a fly-ridden sanitation truck.

Fuck! He should greet death

on a prison toilet and be captured

on a million cameras

for the tabloids to devour--

and that's the mildest thing I'd shower him with;

the acid of my words--

not literal vitriol.

And why do I assault him thus?

I must admit.

It calms my soul.


(Kindly disclaimer: this is a flight of poesy for posterity, but between you and me exempting he, you and me agree that he deserves a recognition of the annoyance and disruption he serves. Apocalyptic possibilities emerge whenever his chances surge. Also he gets on my nerves.)