©To The Man With The…

Once upon a time, poetry was drinking; it was about laughing and sometimes it was ranting in some dark, smoky room with linoleum floors, warm drinks, and nicotine stained walls. Poetry became rude. it became rants. Today, many publish fiercely and independently. Poetry is raw. It is erotic. It is a powerhouse of ranting or it is sentimentality with emotion. Bukowski said, “If you’re going to try, go all the way. There is no other feeling like that.You will be alone with the gods, and the nights will flame with fire. You will ride life straight to perfect laughter. It’s the only good fight there is.” Here’s is today’s rant.

boardwalk empire vincent piazza gif

©To The Man With The Pastel Hands

Your words are about as poignant
as the turd
in the toilet
in the restroom
at the rest stop
in Louisiana.
If they were mine,
I’d want to defecate them, too—
they smell
and they’re worthless.

We can all be thankful
your pastel hands
don’t write in
Braille
or there would be
nothing to say
except that
they are
shitty words
to the touch,
they smell,
and they’re worthless.

Your paintings are about as
striking a composition
as the movements
from the bowels
of a colorless,
blank canvas
sine compositione.
If they were mine,
I’d want to defecate them, too—
they smell
and they’re worthless.

We can all be thankful
your pastel hands
don’t paint
because we would
have to tell you
they are
monochromatic,
crappy paintings —
they smell
and they’re worthless.

Your body is about
as enthralling
as a cow pie
splayed on my bed;
you’re no horse
and I have no
understanding
of your excremental game.
If it were my body,
I’d want to bathe
in disinfectant—
your body smells
and is worthless to me.

I can be thankful
your body with
the pastel hands
won’t be taking mine…
not with your
rank dung clinging
and swinging…
or there would be
hell to pay, and
because it’s so egregious,
it would give me
a shitty feel —
it smells
and is worthless to me.

Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved

This is a dramatic monologue poem in free verse:
It is the utterance of a specific individual (not the poet) at a specific moment in time. The monologue is specifically directed at a listener whose presence is not directly referenced but is merely suggested in the speaker’s words. The primary focus is the development and revelation of the speaker’s character even though the speaker tells the listener how he is seen and thought of by her.

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