Poor Lonely Irony
Mylene pours the wine while Lauren deals
the cards and Andie reads the question
as Caleb cackles, Oh no she didn’t,
before we slide our picks across the table
from which Afton chooses, Two midgets shitting in a bucket,
to complete, Santa surprises bad children
not with coal but with blank, over
Surprise sex exclamation point, or AIDS,
because she does not wish upon bad children
pedophilia or sordid death, even from Santa,
a humor as black as a gun barrel
she may as well herself shove into the dark
mouth of the child. It’s funny, right
until it’s sad — or true? And then what?
Where do you draw the line
between humorous and offensive?
Steve told this one for years to entertain himself:
Go to an art show, he’d say, and admire a painting
by a woman, stand back, cock your head,
and when the painter comes by, say, Did you paint this?
And she’ll say, Yes, I did.
It’s just beautiful, you’ll say. Thank you, she’ll say.
And then you’ll say, I’m really impressed
by your talent. Can I rub your snatch? Irony,
that bad guest at the party, who farts
and won’t excuse himself, or won’t
lay a napkin in his lap, gets put out
in the rain, without his keys, learning his lesson,
though the conversation inside
is so terribly witty, so downright clever,
everyone’s too busy listening to the noise
of their own guffawing to have anything brave to say.about the author