That fight by B F Jones

B F Jones, Poetry

That Fight

We need to address 

The elephant in the room 

That fat bastard 

Has been sucking out

All the oxygen 

Leaving us gasping for breath 

As we shatter those egg shells

Fragments of anger 

Scattering around the place.

Your mother and mine 

That flirt from 2003 

My demanding boss 

Your unsurprising 

Chicken surprise 

All burn on the altar

Of our frustrations

That smells of charred flesh 

And too much cumin. 

Later, 

Tired, 

As the flames slowly die

We make up

Wash the taste of 

Our bitter words 

With wet kisses

Shed tears and clothing

Lick those fresh wounds 

Finally reunified 

Under the watchful eye 

Of a fucking

Pachyderm.