Friday, November 11, 2016

Fecal Matter

Can still smell the shit on my hands from when I was in the bathroom and either didn’t wipe well enough or wiped too well and really made a mess of things.
I can still taste the blood on my dry chapped lips from when I went down on you. It was like a crime scene and your moaning only made the situation more direr.
You were Medusa and my tongue was on fire and ready to go extra innings if necessary.

Can smell the guilty verdicts coming down the pipe as one more Paddington orphan gets their face pushed deeper into the mud and muck of yesterday’s yellowing journalism.
I used to believe I was a trailblazer until realizing all the trail mix in this world and the next wasn’t going to lead anyone out of the desert or tornado ripened trailer park.
No, the fecal matter just grows more resistant and despondent to the objections you’ve raised as this haphazard shit show grows wings and flies too close to the sun and Icarus finally gets what’s coming to him.

I know you believe you’re brave and have everything under control.
I know you believe the world can’t be this fucked and at some point the good guys will finally put a win in their column.
Problem is things have been breaking down long before America was beautiful or the Native Americans were running the show.
We must learn to stop repeating the same mistakes over and over again and focus on what’s really key which isn’t always survival of the fittest or survival of the least profane.
We’ll never get the toothpaste back into the tube and we’ll never wash our hands free and clear of all this blood until we take a really good look at ourselves in the mirror and finally accept we brought all of this unto ourselves.

Charles Cicirella

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