And I Found Her Bitter

you open up so swiftly
with a sophomoric
declaration of
misery masked
as beauty
because the bird
that perches on your knee
is confused for femininity.

other than suckling
on breasts of
little means, and
detesting the maker,
your words sound
better accompanied
by the brightly
lit face of my mother
testing her french,
her red cheeks and pursed
lips as she hugs your
honored ramblings,
are more poetic
than the metric
you tripped over.

Sometimes writers are
better drunks than
writers.

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