My Consultant says you suck and that I was right all along.
I really like My Consultant.
When you are talking, knotting together all of your opinions
into a rope ladder to nowhere,
My Consultant jabbers pleasantly in my ear, thank God.
At Area 51,
My Consultant was there.
In the Bonnie & Clyde death car,
My Consultant was there,
in the chamber of his heart, in the untouched beauty of her hair.
Are you still talking? I'm sorry.
My Consultant is telling me about how to get rid of aphids.
You may think I'm nuts.
You may think a lot of things, and blab about each one until Jesus pukes.
Kiss my ass and watch it pass, I'm on my way to sweeter things.
If there's anything else,
go to the house where we first met, curl up as small as you can get,
and take it up with My Defender,
My Cat-Faced Commander from Outer Space.
Accept her mercy.
Be humble, my froward shithead.
Be silent and receive her grace.
Image at top is Cristina Scabbia.