SQUEAL

All of those days noons dawns twilights you ever asked me how I was “holding up” and expected honesty, I lied on the forefront, on the battle grounds of truth,

do not even for the slightest moment begin to recall these times, do not give in, curiosity, it’s not worth wasting the dial ticks,

just know I had my morals wounded in battle, shot down by the artillery from a nearby stunned gunner with eyes still big from what he-she has done to me,

do you not see what you have done to me, no? well of course you don’t because you’re the one behind the scope, he-she, and your eyes wander nowhere, for you would be reprimanded,

do your duty and hold your trigger finger firm, steadfast in your ways and its ways, and fire on me! a bullet filled with propaganda, because I am some innocent Dada artist with scissors paintbrush glue, and you’re Hitler with your high arm, flailing legs out forward, but refrain, you cannot fire a rifle with one hand and limbs cantankerously disobeying GOD (he wouldn’t like that you know),

push over billboards, all media signage onto my battered torso, their numbers too high for “holding up,” chop me free of my organs that breathe me toward outlet malls and the like, for I cannot spend another co-caine-dipped-dollar, though they both get me high,

for you see, I am not “holding up” a single monument of doubt, let alone myself,

I have given in to suffering, it has taken me from behind, bound my wrists and ankles, tied me to the bed posts, had its way! with me and made me its queen,

I will forgo its children, and he will want us to wont us to live happily ever never, our pestilence is post-penance for thou that shall sin in these times, gathered ‘round epidemical radiation,

poison your eyes, why don’t you,

or cower, your call,

but you already knew that, you have always made your own decisions, and you never heed my warnings, though they would undoubtedly save you from conformity,

hold up in a shack inside Wyoming, outside you’re roaming, Hemingway yourself,

but do not hurt anyone, I beg you, do not send bombs in canisters tubular devices shoes never worn for tennis, you menace, because you do not want the world to hate you, do not live in infamy, I would rather you cut it up syllabically, add a shriek to the center’s end and question the last with a wisp,

though I doubt you’ll listen, you never have and never will if I had to guess,

see, I just don’t want to see you impregnated by suffering, but I can see into your future and that future is inevitable,

my apologies, friend,

no, I didn’t do it, I am not your scapegoat, I live on the outer-banks of the moat you have surrounded yourself in and you can’t see me so you can’t blame me, too bad so glad, I am,

don’t you hate to see me smile, after asking me how I’m “holding up,” because you want what you have to be better than what I have, to be more astute studious splendiferous supercalifragilisticexpialidocious and too many more audible creations for me to place since I am running out of room to loathe you,

just know that I do, when you come to me, ask me your questions for the sake of self-gratitude, take a look in the Beatitudes,

I am sorry, I truly do not know what I am saying, I only enjoyed the feeling of the sounds slip from my tongue onto my lips and out as they sounded like equals, unabashed by segregation of the spoken word, admittedly I have never so much as opened a Bible,

if you say I pose—I do it like they are paying me for it, like a model on the runway with the body she has molded over porcelain on infested infatuated tiles of a department store unisex restroom—I don’t blame you,

I am one of them, I live in their mirror and make false claims about their skin tones bucked teeth pulling away from each other in the vein of opposing magnetic forces photoshopped hair follicle plucked brow identifiers retina reflection cheekbone wide pores sagging lobes bottom lip chin cleft shoulder droop elbow wrinkle small breasts ribcage protrusion hip joint bugging softball-playing calves streaming right into ankles toenails, we are too fucking! fat is what they tell me,

and I believe it.

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