To My Evil Brother*
by Happy Hiram
I can apologize for calling you evil
But not for thinking it.
I know that twisted, bound up
fist in your stomach, as if it were mine
Nails pressed into your spleen
Blood oozing in your sh!t
And by sh!t I mean your work
It is beautiful sh!t sometimes
Filled with guts and bits of spleen.
But it comes from an inhuman place
I know the rafters of hate
The i-beams of disdain
The shingles of gruffness
If I weren't inept
If my every move were not a misstep
I would be like you
A cunning animal with the bleeding heart
of a poet
But I am just a word-masher, an ever-clever,
a trickster
not the swept back caped villain...
But you prefer an apology,
and hypocrisy.
So be.
I am sorry, I said what I meant.
*This poem is about Dave, not my actual brother.
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