It's not a rant, but I don't care.

From: (TarlaStar)

I know that we're SUPPOSED to rant, chant, and rip holes in the 40
known Universes 'round here, but I've read philosophy, song lyrics and
other semi-serious stuff. I'm posting this here, partially because I
stole the title from Stang's daughter, and partially because I think
it's a SubGenius Poem...I'm a know

Wake up and Smell the Dead

There's a place I own inside you.
A place where in retrospect you will believe
that my smile was the brightest
my eyes the wickedest
my wit the most cutting and urbane.
My mouth will become, in memory,
the most cunning creation that
God ever laid his hand to.
You came to me young, what did you expect?
Were you looking for a dewy-eyed girl
with a tabula rasa heart, and an empty head
ready to be filled with lies?
I could have been that.

I could have been a Playboy Bunny
wriggling my white powderpuff tail
like a searchlight to draw your eyes and make you squirm.
I could have been nothing more than a soft well of cleavage,
a warm wet fantasy, with moist lips, an easy to understand
vocabulary, and a list of hobbies, which always included fellatio.
I could have been the kind of woman who pretended to enjoy
the burgeoning bludgeon inside your Hart Shaffner & Marx.
I could have been that.

I could have been on Oprah, or Sally or Jenny or Montel
Telling my tale of trailer park woe
wearing a hard thin line of black around my eyes
In my best K-Mart, Jacqueline Smith rhinestone sweater
tawdry but teachable, a girl to be saved.
and molded gently into a tight, quiet, prisoner
afraid of losing everything that I had learned to need,
faking orgasms and making up for it later with a charge card,
the home shopping network, a stashed bottle of Jack Daniel's
and a Panasonic dual speed.
Oh, I could have been that.

I could have been a scholar
I could have been so in love with the word
that you would have had to take me in the library stacks
Smearing Joyce, and Thomas, yes, Hemingway himself
with the pearly effluviant of our literary passion.
I could have loved the word so much, that
I would have walked about with pebbles in my pockets
mumbling like Virginia Woolf or
cooing quietly to myself like a pigeon on the grass, alas.
And because I could not stop for sex, it would kindly stop
for me.
I would have been so grateful for your instruction
that Anais Nin would be put to shame by my glowing praise

of your research skills
I could have been that.

I could have been any one of a number of fantasies,
an interesting side path on the road to whatever idea you had
of perfect love.
But I was none of those things and more.
I was the thing you never dreamed of, the thing that made
you wake up at night wondering at the newness of it all.
Plaid boy;
all straight lines and interwoven expectations
you could never have predicted me.

And since you didn't kill me when I left
I'm afraid you'll just have to love me till you die.


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