SO VEIN

you thought I wrote
this song/poem about you…

in a sense
I indeed did
and could have
made you famous
(if only you
had stuck by me)

but
doing what you did,
necessitating departure,
the anger and
acrimony still bubbling
up
over
under
(all the
prepositions which
for us were
not even hardly, but actually
never in the
slightest
sexual)

there is still
a rich vein of poetry
to be mined

red, arterial blood of bitter exploited
drug-crazy passion
spurting
splashing across the page

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