You have to do it a way that says – Well, what exactly?
It’s a speech and a poem, written in free verse,
Punctuated thoroughly,
Keeping in mind
All of the major literary trends of the past century or so,
Give or take a few years.
You can hit a woman – not in the way she is used to,
You have put away the knuckles before picking them up,
Your fingers are always relaxed.
All you need are words.
Words are all you need.
Come on, she wanted you to, anyway.
She wants you to be the bad guy.
She wants to be able to tell all of her friends –
“And then, when I was just about to put my shoes on,
In the hallway…”
There will be a meaningful pause.
Her blue eyes will well up with tears –
Unshed, but trembling there, as fragile as soap bubbles.
Her friends will find all of the right things to say,
All of the things women say
When men are as obliging as they can be.
Tell her that she is just like her mother,
And will wind up the same way –
Beautiful and underfucked,
Stirring sugar into her coffee somewhere far away.
Tell her that great writers have said,
The sort of things that can apply to her.
And tell her that lately you’ve been thinking
That they really apply to another woman.
One you haven’t met yet.
Or have you?
She’s standing somewhere under her umbrella.
Her eyes are probably dark.
Her tits sag, baby – compared to these things,
That have softened, and not too far
Below my collarbone.
I don’t give a shit about her medical diagnosis.
She doesn’t have my earning potential.
Her legs are HALF as long.
Men don’t turn their heads for her – full of
television and body lotion
– in the street.
Hey, whatever.
You now know how to hit a woman.
I look good in purple.
I always look good.
But I repent.
I repent.
I repent.
It serves no literary function.
Still I repent. I ask
For forgiveness.
Come.
Come back.