Fuck this Poem

This is a Fiona Apple mood now—
got my own hell to raise.

Selfish you, you know nothing
of this life, its trials, its mouth
large as an over-filled bucket,
side of the damn road.

Calm down. It’s all subjective.

Your own problems settling
at the bottom of fermentation,
the night’s sleeves rolled half
way to reveal, yet comfort.

Go ahead and guzzle your
comparable pain—

like a guzzling drain, you suck.

Giggle.

And hate only stems from love,
on a tree sprouting from a desert.

The smallest sprout, Whitman.

And love dangles on a dry branch,
hate stares at love’s branch.

Fuck it. Refer to Avett’s ballad.

One can’t exist without the other.
Again, you don’t know the desk
exists unless you see it, sit in it.
Well, sit on it—next to Fonzie.

So, my hate grows from love’s
branch, I reckon’.
It’s my coping mechanism,
my cocaine,
my liquid cure, Conor.

Your face, blank as my canvases
left sitting—oil splashed on its
side, the beginning of a so-called
masterpiece,

it dries slowly like a time machine
delivering me back to my youth—
like H.G. Wells, I float from one
comparable time to another.

And I’ve become obsessed with
the idea of comparable time,

a literal clock like a figurative
noose around my neck.