This week's Sunday series features two prose poems.
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Fabric has been a metaphor for fate
since civilization bothered to record
I do not weave
I do not design
I collage the things that happenstance threw my way
Someone else made it
Does it still say "me?"
Who said it first in the manner that I mean it?
Maybe if it's my perceived will,
but still,
there's nobody new under the sun.
One type of ideal woman can be dressed up or dressed down
she
takes your shit
hides it where you'll never have to think of it again
porcelain and pale, though not so weak
that you'd damage her
when you fumble for her comfort
in your drunken stupor
and when you hold her
she won't ask, when you're using others who aren't her,
where have you been?
who were you with?
even if she breaks down and you replace her
she is still your ideal woman,
the toilet.
____________________________________________________
Fabric has been a metaphor for fate
since civilization bothered to record
I do not weave
I do not design
I collage the things that happenstance threw my way
Someone else made it
Does it still say "me?"
Who said it first in the manner that I mean it?
Maybe if it's my perceived will,
but still,
there's nobody new under the sun.
____________________________________________________
Warning: this second poem contains attempted humor, cursing, and adult themes.
One type of ideal woman can be dressed up or dressed down
she
takes your shit
hides it where you'll never have to think of it again
porcelain and pale, though not so weak
that you'd damage her
when you fumble for her comfort
in your drunken stupor
and when you hold her
she won't ask, when you're using others who aren't her,
where have you been?
who were you with?
even if she breaks down and you replace her
she is still your ideal woman,
the toilet.
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