#8 Catharsis

You are the runaway horse
To which I strap my ire
From time to time.

Reclining on a fat cushion of
"There but for the grace of..."
Well... who will ever know...?

You are cut out of ply,
Ragged-edged,
A pledge to the future

You occupy sly corners
Of my psyche
A shouting sandtrap

That era was exhausting
A forced march through
The further ends of every Bell Curve

You gave me these things:
Assonance, orgasms,
New definitions of arrogance

Consider this a thank-you note
For, if nothing else,
A kind of immunity.

This is dedicated to all those who will know what I mean today when I say "fucking BEIGE".

If you don't want to be in a poem, don't fuck (with) a poet.