The Devil’s Milkshake
A poem
Reeling from a battle-whipped week of calamitous activity, the backside of heightened emotional cadence, I find a way to end up on my feet, OK?
Today, I proudly wear the uniform of disgust.
All its epaulets and gold buttons,
helping disguise the imaginary me,
the persona who keeps failure in line,
reality at bay,
free from wounded-eyed clarity,
nobility's handshake,
head-nodding grace,
fueling self-exaggeration.
Walking a tightrope up so high in rarified air,
imagination is no match for snow-blind flaws,
the usual internal brawling,
the abyss of behavior-ing;
backslapping stink-eye of dissatisfaction,
self-inflicted acrimony.
Fear not, sports fans!
The middling me always prevails,
I am merely the ice cream in the Devil’s milkshake,
resulting in my joyously elevated wordery.
(And, scene!!)
© Scott Zosel (all rights reserved)
Greetings Skuzzbucket peeps, glad to have a place for my stuff. Feels like home. Love this place, glad to be here!
