Bad Days and Breeding: An Angry Poem

It's like a sterile gauze 
on a fresh wound:
it sucks either way
for it does not take long to realize
that what good bleeds through a bad day
doesn’t make a bad day any more or less than that,
or a wound any more or less a wound.
Try to get the bad stuff
off chests
and allow good stuff
an access. 
Make lists
and shake fists
and ask

Why compartmentalize 
and criticize the lists and
fists of boxed-up bad days?
Why bother with the thing
much rather forgotten, ignored
and passively pissed away?
What is this thing that fuels
complaining and bitching
and moaning and dramatizing? 
What is it with all the questions
crying out 
like a bitch

in summer heat

getting her first naturally phallic gift

of pain?

We call it breeding 
to better objectify the act, 
for love and rape are too black and white
to justify the fact.

We’re in it, and we can’t

find the pen or anything

to write with,
pissed at personal ignorance

of earth and women

and life and man;
take any-given means to
escape it all - alcohol or drugs 

or hugs or love
or fundamentalism
or liberal sensibilities 
all trying to be and limited by right -
fighting, striving, writing with swords
shaped to the very perfection

of a penis. 

We’re in it and since we’re playing

with ourselves would

laugh at the joke,
the insanity of it all, 
constructing god,
the creator and the blame,
better off throwing it away.

The end of a day 
chopped into symmetrical durations,
pens shaped like a penis,
bitches whelping for busted hymens, 
angry poems cursing compartmentalization,
see it all in those crystal balls of glass
reflecting fish-eyed lives,

distorted selves collecting dust

on ancient shelves

of days past and living lies.