Weird Poetry

I can’t write another word without spilling off the goddamned page.

But I’ve always excelled at spilling so I don’t see a reason to stop now. I mean I have a monthly quota that I never fail to fulfill, and that quota includes precisely 3 spilled receptacles of one variety or another. A glass. A bowl. A coffee cup… my favourite coffee cup. A planter. You name it… I have either spilled its contents, broke it… or both. The two-for-ones are always a thrill but a little concerning if they happen at the beginning of the month.

This month, I count myself as one of the receptacles. And I have already surpassed my quota. A record. No joke. The spillage is real.

But I am talking about a very special kind of spilling. This is the kind you can never mop up or have any hopes of ever really cleaning. When you spill words, it’s like spilling warm blood on a fresh white cotton shirt. You know that stain is there for fucking ever. You can chuck the bloodbathed one and buy a new shirt, sure. But you will always know that you bled all over the other one. You will always know. Fucking always.

The problem is… if I don’t spill and overflow and bubble up til my cup runneth all over the whole damn place, well, I don’t know what will happen but I don’t really want to find out. I have been holding decades inside me. It’s gonna be messy either way.

The way I see it is it’s a good thing that I don’t scare easy and that blood doesn’t make me queasy or even freak me out. Not in the least (sometimes it does the opposite… but that’s a poem or twelve for another time).

But I might not be able to say the same for you though….

Maybe the safest course of action is to run. Save yourself. Seriously. If you see me coming up your street, just know that I will either break all your cups, bleed all over you, or both.




Do this if we are friends (and you have decided to forgo self-preservation):

1. Have a mop nearby. Or one of those tiny hand-held brooms with the little shovel doo-hickey.

2. Wear red or brown shirts so the blood is camouflaged or at least not as noticeable.

3. Don’t stand too close to me.

4. Hold me close and tell me everything will be ok.

5. Be ok with the fact that the numbers 3 and 4 cannot be safely reconciled. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

4 thoughts on “Spill

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