I could couch this poem in any manner of metaphor
Take your
pick
How about
plate tectonics?
Crust rent asunder – the substrate to your super-narrative
How about butterflies?
Forty-eight
hours to live and wreak havoc on everything around you
Or bullet
ants
Woven into
an Amazonian initiation glove
Temporarily
tranquilized by shamanic smoke
Only to wake
up in a biting stinging frenzy of self-actualization
But no
You don’t
deserve literary devices
Poetic
subterfuge will simply edify your ego further
Truth is
You’re your
own natural disaster
Unworthy of insect similes or geological symbolism
After all the ant dies when the glove is discarded
The
butterfly falters and fades, leaving only melted wings and empty cocoons in its wake
Plates collide with continents
But you get
to go on being you, insouciant you
You and your
Gospel of Luke and your daddy-issue flotsam
Yahweh, Vader – take your fucking pick
It’s all the
same to the plebs left behind
The unseen
casualties of your catastrophegraph
Now just
another set of muddy footprints
On my weather-worn
tatami
Yet another prick through the packing sheets of snap-crackle-pop monogamy
Calculated
breakups in the name of destiny fulfillment
No arc, no
character development, no shimmering soliloquies
I’m not your
plot device – and you don’t get your pick of mine
And if your
dreams of love and heroism simply shrivel on the vine
Then this shitty
little poem about heartbreak
Has fulfilled
its fuction as assigned
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