A tree hangs loose in autumn breeze
Listening intent for the next truth to make itself apparent
Whetting its roots against the blue river pebbles
Thirsting for an opportunity of adventure to arise
Perhaps, the next bird will bring more than the scent
On the back of its wings
Perhaps, the earth will hear its pleas for freedom and—
—wait, wait, are you even listening to me?
No no no, I mean it; don’t try to play dumb
You totally checked out
You looked like fucking Linda Blair with your eyes rolled back
And I definitely saw you wipe the drool from your lips, you nasty
Am I that boring to you? That you can’t even sit through
One goddam poem about the wonders of nature without tuning out?
Have a little respect! I pull my teeth crafting this shit
I agonize over the placement of words that so few people read to begin with
And you just march on in here and pretend to read my poem
For fucking what? What the hell were you expecting to find? Because
I sure as hell ain’t the next McCarthyBukowskiEliotSalingerWhitmanPlathBurroughsFuckwadMcgee
I. don’t. even. want. to. be.
All I want is to write plucky little poems without bleeding myself dry
But voyeuristic assholes like you just want to see me suffer
Right? Admit it. You came here to get off
To watch another living, breathing, feeling human being
Take a rusty fucking scalpel to the abdomen, dig jagged and deep
Slowly, methodically, orgasmically
You want me to pull, inch by inch, intestines from the gash
And arrange them on the page, just so, in a beautiful, grotesque cursive
That describes, in cancerous detail, the searing pain
That I swallow like a hunk of meat in my windpipe
So you can watch me choke sans culpability
Well, that numbness you feel—I refuse to be your metaphysical therapist
You’ve been so desensitized. It’s actually sad
You used to enjoy poetry about beauty and love
You used to connect with joy and the rising sun
But you’ve become so twisted, don’t deny it
You’re searching for snuff and you don’t even have the self-awareness to use incognito mode
You sick fuck.
Well, fuck you. You wanna feel something for once? Here’s my scalpel
It’s yours for the taking
But you’ll have to show me the blinding pink of your insides
And let’s just see what comes out.
Alannah Guevara is a poet-wife and vilomah. Find her published works by floating around in the aether (or in Revolution John, Isele Magazine, Toyon, and Rejection Letters). Alannah is the editor-in-chief of Hunter’s Affects: a lit mag for deadheads. Alannah is on Twitter @prismospickle.
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