Mother Tongue

An iron fist
like Putin’s, English and
I make one

and keep in mind I censor myself, because I can think of far more gruesome ways to paraphrase my blueprint, spit blood and mucous, ruthless nouns I use to neutralize each nuisance my mind imagines-

he’s an
without AA, a brand
of stupid all
bravery shames,
unsavory to

I’m the Christmas pageant of everything wrong with humani-wait…do you think we can rent Santa’s reindeer like we did last year? “Aw, man, they were such a pain to acquire.” You better get it or I’ll set the whole fucking stage on fire!

Point is, it’s easy to admire
raw talent but sometimes it
comes conjoined
with malice,
leaving calluses over
everything and I’m burnt
out with
half a lung.

Maybe I’ve
been too gentle and
the niceties are just
a rental.

I should just unleash this pitbull, but I fear it won’t be so simple. The fucker will not sit still, he already bit me once. His existence is a bad pun I thought of drinking rum and wishing I had an attack mutt I don’t have to clean up after. So far, the experience has been an absolute disaster. He’s shitting everywhere, eating plaster, he’s Cujo on cocaine, that dog was already insane, now the rabies call him Master. His owner’s been an asshole, kicking his ribs, bruising his lips, burning him to crisps in attempts to pit mind against body during a holdup, give me everything you own, douchebag, this is a soul robbery.

In this
one hundred forty
character world,
English is the
new oil.

Does that make
me a commodity?
The spoils
of war?

Or am I just a nominee for
the Darwin Awards in
the Republic
of word porn?

So sorry, I didn’t ask to be incarnated as a thorn in your side, but now that I’m here, I demand I get my day in court where judges snorting lines of crazy inform me I’m taboo and these changing times are my sentence, political correctness my cellmate. Overcrowding will teach me repentance? You haven’t met my sac of venom, all it knows how to do is sting, and I doubt prison riots will silence the wasps in my words, epileptic seizures your allergies sing, septic bee hives in every honest phonic and innocent homonym that runs through my sewers of blood.

I don’t think
fifty years
in isolation could quell
my mother


3 thoughts on “Mother Tongue

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