Fuck You, September
Fuck you, September
and all your orangey, brilliant hysteria.
I hate the way you taste on my tongue
like the beer I left in the trunk of my car
for three weeks --
to bubble in stifling confinement --
and then choked down
to flush you from my veins.
September, I can’t help but feel
you have it out for me.
You lie in wait --
between August’s exotic, long-legged sensuality
and a smoky, peach tea October dream --
with an angry little bottle rocket for a heart,
doing one-arm pushups
on the floor of your mother’s garage,
building muscle mass
for the ripping apart of my world.
Oh, September, you twisted whore.
There is nothing ironic
about relationships and dreams and lives
severed with an almost imperceptible snap
within days of each other,
or the way you gather disasters
in your pockets
and sprinkle doom-dust in my eyes
when I least expect it.
Fuck this brittle, rain-soaked excuse
you call “thirty days“.
Fuck your four savage weeks
and the rug burns you left on my face
as you shot past me,
dumbfounded me,
annihilated me.
Fuck your idle hands at play,
the absent-minded perversion.
Fuck every Ford Taurus you sent
hurtling down campus streets
toward unsuspecting motorcycles,
fuck every drug overdose,
every cancerous lump,
every hurricane,
every child you sent missing
on an otherwise blissful Tuesday afternoon,
and fuck (especially) every awful, awful dream
you tattooed inside my eyelids.
Bitter, self-righteous September,
you have taken nearly all I have,
left only a few packages of Ramen noodles
and my naked, chattering bones.
I saw you dancing in the parking lot
outside my apartment.
You were wearing my favorite t-shirt
and carrying the rest in a plastic bag.
I would have run after you,
chased you down in the street
like the rabid, flea-bitten dog you are,
but you’ve got my will to fight
in your left pocket.
I can hear it clinking against my last dime.
As I slip into a crisp, candlelit October
and the sweet smell of rotting leaves
begins to outweigh your dankness,
I can’t help but drop to my bare knees
and kiss the pavement, sticky with autumn.
I rest my face on the ground.
The earth vibrates, still somewhat rattled,
but certainly healing as it bathes with me
in the confectionary charm of fall.
Standing now, expanding within the doneness of you,
I gather my bones and my noodles,
I gather my friends and my lovers
(the ones you haven’t shattered)
and I gather what’s left of my voice to whisper,
“Fuck you, September.
Don‘t ever come back.”
and all your orangey, brilliant hysteria.
I hate the way you taste on my tongue
like the beer I left in the trunk of my car
for three weeks --
to bubble in stifling confinement --
and then choked down
to flush you from my veins.
September, I can’t help but feel
you have it out for me.
You lie in wait --
between August’s exotic, long-legged sensuality
and a smoky, peach tea October dream --
with an angry little bottle rocket for a heart,
doing one-arm pushups
on the floor of your mother’s garage,
building muscle mass
for the ripping apart of my world.
Oh, September, you twisted whore.
There is nothing ironic
about relationships and dreams and lives
severed with an almost imperceptible snap
within days of each other,
or the way you gather disasters
in your pockets
and sprinkle doom-dust in my eyes
when I least expect it.
Fuck this brittle, rain-soaked excuse
you call “thirty days“.
Fuck your four savage weeks
and the rug burns you left on my face
as you shot past me,
dumbfounded me,
annihilated me.
Fuck your idle hands at play,
the absent-minded perversion.
Fuck every Ford Taurus you sent
hurtling down campus streets
toward unsuspecting motorcycles,
fuck every drug overdose,
every cancerous lump,
every hurricane,
every child you sent missing
on an otherwise blissful Tuesday afternoon,
and fuck (especially) every awful, awful dream
you tattooed inside my eyelids.
Bitter, self-righteous September,
you have taken nearly all I have,
left only a few packages of Ramen noodles
and my naked, chattering bones.
I saw you dancing in the parking lot
outside my apartment.
You were wearing my favorite t-shirt
and carrying the rest in a plastic bag.
I would have run after you,
chased you down in the street
like the rabid, flea-bitten dog you are,
but you’ve got my will to fight
in your left pocket.
I can hear it clinking against my last dime.
As I slip into a crisp, candlelit October
and the sweet smell of rotting leaves
begins to outweigh your dankness,
I can’t help but drop to my bare knees
and kiss the pavement, sticky with autumn.
I rest my face on the ground.
The earth vibrates, still somewhat rattled,
but certainly healing as it bathes with me
in the confectionary charm of fall.
Standing now, expanding within the doneness of you,
I gather my bones and my noodles,
I gather my friends and my lovers
(the ones you haven’t shattered)
and I gather what’s left of my voice to whisper,
“Fuck you, September.
Don‘t ever come back.”