Innard Yank

If I dug your eye out with a soup spoon, would you hate me back?
Trampled undersight but never tricked that far off track
In an innard yank you only pull what gives and groans
Like a dentist who pokes past the teeth and grabs a bone.

In the forest of my armpit the greenhouse effect
Hasn't happened Boris Yeltsin said he may defect.

Unfamiliar rhythms glisten through the choky murk
Rabid underside--to think the law just got off work
Haven from the safety of a sluggish baritone
You would rather have a diamond than an ice cream cone.

This is war, this isn't fun with libidinal trends
And the reverb of a boat oar may well make amends.

Lay your soaking finger along the rim of the glass
Though a tad off-key, the nature will take you to task.

I digress, I guess, because I'm slightly impotent
And a furrowed brow reminds me your antenna's bent
I pretend to laugh, but there's no non-black humor here
Everything I say leaves skidmarks in your inner ear.

All the ‘wells' and ‘ums' and ‘anyways' smell like bad beef
It's the sin accommodative that's giving me grief.

The rouge - it breaks like capillaries on your cheeks
Innard yanking has its valleys and it has its peaks
Such a cool receptacle as you have deigned to be
Your metabolism's vulgar, but it beckons me.

Haven't wept like this for anything since I was twelve
Now your apathy must take my old place on the shelf.

Copyright 1992 John Brocato