Ode to Magritte

son-of-man

The “good” wields its way in
Like a blade
It can cut so sweet
Can’t it?
You bleed before the pain begins.
I’ve lost so much liquid
To saccharin, sugar must
Flow through my veins.
Perhaps that’s why I’m so tasty?

They move from the hip
They do.
That’s where they keep it
The knife. Serrated.
Feigned from the heart
Like an apple on their nose
It’s screwed in as an afterthought.
More for their own olfactory benefit,
Something to hide under their hat later.
Faster quick draw than a boot strap
And closer to their sex, you see.

Even friendship moves heart to pelvis.
Chest to middle
Gut to mind and round and round
Unless the source is screwed to screw
And undo because that’s what they do
Toodaloo and what can you do?
But try to be true for what’s left when your due
Keeps being sugar-oo’d?

Ode to Magritte

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