With eyes flashing like
Hemingway’s zealous
Prose, or his
shotgun sprayed scarlet,
Tara smirks and makes you a souvenir
Of her
mockery: "Your
half-assed embittered
Prose lacks the
gravity--
the lunacy--
Of truth.
It sags like boiled soy."
Wretched vegetarian bitch! Soy
Is her only metaphor, and weak: each zealous
Couplet pushed toward utter lunacy,
Ending in "
boy" or "
goy" for that Scarlet
Letter "F":
forced rhyme. Embittered,
You snag the uneaten
pizza, a souvenir
For all the places without souvenirs.
Exquisitely
trayf red meat, that anti-soy,
That "I am not," for poor embittered
Spaniards. Complicitous, and even zealous,
You smirk back, glad to be
Scarlett
In
Tara’s burning
cinematic lunacy.
She’s the
drama queen, her
scepter, lunacy.
Her
backhanded compliment is the last souvenir
You’ll keep. Two years from now a scarlet
Kiss-print, shocking and
guilty against the soy-
Colored
pillow case will recall her zealous
Lust,
her animal cravings. Embittered,
You’ll rub it and it will smear. Embittered,
You’ll remember her words: "
Love is lunacy."
You’ll unveil
bleach: an
oxidizer so zealous
That you’ll quench the painful souvenir
Without meaning to. The pillow case, like soy,
Will sit blandly, but you’ll imagine a blur of scarlet.
Even now that smirk gleams in scarlet.
You love and hate and lust, embittered,
And she tells you your poems are "soy."
You’re caught
playing a role in her lunacy,
And take the gleam in her eyes for a souvenir
Before she can stop looking so zealous.
That zealous gleam, capped in slick scarlet
Will be your last souvenir when, embittered,
You descend into lunacy, alone with
bad prose and soy.
--jurph