fury and sentiment,
like olive to maroon
to gold: so descends
need. and you're angry
like a baby minus tit.
then you're sorry cuz
so many have been so
nice. scary being hungry.
hungry, like it was to
you before you knew you'd
be sated, your thirst slaked;
like it would just keep getting
worse, perhaps forever.
nice diversion, though,
neat trick, when you can't
decide if you're more
thirsty or hungry (and
soon forget both until you
stop pondering which you
feel worse), you
feel them both so much. yet
you know better than to utter
a word or a cry or a yelp about
it, because it upsets people.

"waaaah."

"are you happy now??!
like you couldn't wait til --"

"but I was h--"

"you were what??!"

thirsty or hungry or angry;
I don't know words yet, forgive
me. gimme a nip, some frosted
flakes - I even like shredded
wheat (but always always, sweet
please, with milk).
but then, appeased, mollified,
you roil in regret. regret for
your complaint when so many
have been so nice and so many
are in so much need. but, kid,
you know nothing of proportion. you
knew not proportionate response, just
the words that mollified, appeased:
danka, base-hit, crayfish, wonder-
bread. remember all that? they even
clapped.
so we're over all that. but
we need. or do we? sex is a want,
a desire more lovely than dates
or ass to a palm-fannedfatpharoah.
but you're just a guy with a job
(you sure that i'm not a pharoah?
don't you remember that time that I --)
who talks about this pretty woman
(you sure that she's no queen?)
who lives somewhere else, as every
one snickers when you leave a room:
moron.
but again: sentiment, gratitude. how
to get and give. eat her like a starving, sunburnt
man would a ripe mango; but you're a toothless,
wise, old midwife with a prehensile cock.
and you're a boar and apollo and
perhaps she'll take it, like it, want it
over and over again and still love you.
but
that changes her from a beauty to a girl
in a chorus. a list of fems you coaxed to
sing.