Hatred on a Director's Scale

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: July 20, 2018

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Submitted: July 20, 2018

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It's a guttural scream,

HAMMERING in your chest and up your bones,

searing and bubbling into the marrow

 

A supernova of red cells,

BLAZING through your blood stream

and into your head

 

White noise, SCREECHING static,

 

red, Red, RED

 

Immoral suggestions

wonderfully violent fantasies

where you laid four bare knuckles into the eye socket of a prick from high school

who wore his jeans too low, his hair too long and his dick too short for his pride

 

compensation

bitching you and anyone else and you

 

You imagine the way your hand would hurt so serenely black and green and blue

and spattered with his broken, sun-scared nose

 

To watch his painfully icy-blue eyes snap real wide one last time

like seeing ghosts

or crimson stars,

just before his consciousness drains away to a sea of dreamlessness

(not death but close)

 

I used to imagine it every time

like a news real on a loop:

 

Snot-Nosed Tough-Guy, Put to Bed by Freshman

or Local Delinquent Downed by Underdog

 

A gory script was written by my imagination

tickets to the show were half-price on Mondays

at 7am

when people cut the lines outside the thick glass doors

to the metal detectors,

while I stood freezing my ass off

in the weather-man's BITTER frosty forecast

standing in line waiting, like I was supposed to

 

I never cut;

never enacted scripts;

didn't play the role

though its dialogue simmered in the stale, marble floor-cleaner fumes around me,

down the blue and gold (and white and tan) brick halls

of West Mifflin Area High School

Blue, Gold

Titans!

 red, Red, RED!!!

 

but that's not how it happenednot really

you see, these are the types of things you learn from the directors cut of the movie

 

No matter what script my head wrote

or how cruel, putrid, vial the fucked up person I beat bloody

I knew who the story's antagonist was (in justice's or principle's eyes; my mother's; my own)

—every-time.

I knew.

Every-time.

 

Now I look back on worn scripts

and pitiful people

and pity (just a little)

 

Now I see why you have to be the director

not the actor

 

Less drama/ better benefits

 

RED, Red, red

 

 

 

 


© Copyright 2018 C.J. Short. All rights reserved.