Like Pearls Before Swine
This poem is called LIKE PEARLS BEFORE SWINE, in other words, like
pouring a bottle of Chateaux d'Yquem for someone who's been chugging
grain alcohol all afternoon. It is alternatively titled: A hopefully
exhaustive list of metaphors to be employed like knife / tweezers to
gouge out the last bits of your eyes / flesh from my brain / heart,
because I thought you were going to be the message, but it turns out
you were just the messenger and now you have to die. You're like one
of those fucking Picasso paintings where the womens' faces are all
strange and discombobulated, like they haven't figured out how to sit
on the same damn face yet. And each one makes sense when you get
sucked into just one lie at a time, but when you step back and try to
make sense of the shards clinging to your hands / ribs, you realize
its not understanding, it's just bleeding, and all these fucked up
facets will need more than many months of Nina Simone before they can
own themselves.
But of course it took me a while to get the big picture. All I knew
was, "like a bitch in heat", and I'm dragging my cunt
around, "like a split oyster" changing my underwear,
"like a two year olds diapers" dripping for you, swooning
with relief that I'm finally getting pedagogy wrapped up in a dirty
fuck, with a enough butter to keep us fat and enough bourbon to keep
me young, feeling anyway.
But no, you somehow think that intent is enough, like playing video
games is as good as exercise 'cause your little man on the screen did
an ollie, while your moldy ass is on the couch pontificating, and
gesticulating, waxing eloquent and verbally masturbating about
"decolonizing your imagination through BDSM kink", and
"interrogating desire as an academic activist within the layered
contexts of oppression", about "living into your potential
for blah blah fucking blah" — who gives a shit anymore PhD?
Your scared little soul is just whimpering for another sacred spanking
cause you miss Jesus, are short on prowess, and like I said, bringing
my booty open to you is throwing pearls before swine.
But oh, right, the poem . . .
Lets just say I burned your underwear beneath a howling moon
on a pile of sweet grass and sage,
held my heart / nose to the fire / smoke,
like the dog to own her carpet shit,
told her to breathe deep
and get used to it.
Copyright © Samantha Barrow
All rights reserved.
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