Heavy Stuff

You might see one of us in a totally
deep private space with a hook for an arm from some
hanger, in a crappy pirate movie with a flannel shirt
soaked in blood, lemons in one of our breast pockets
leaking sticky juice. You might have to crack open
a pomegranate and fling the seeds on the
damp blue carpet -- not out of mischief, but of spite --
that's the way you flow in your cycle of despair and woe.
You can shave or pluck the unsightly hairs from your
mysterious enemies, you can rake the yard
of glass and offal while casually piercing the bag
of gassy air. You can even score points
with a machete as you walk through the yards, but you'll
never ever ever ever ever make friends with
the cool group because they totally kick
ass and they are so tired of your bullshit.