You’ll argue no one loathes a Fuck, but there
one is, egg-shaped, and never matching
any decorative pillows on the couch.
What creator could conceive a mustard
yellow so atrocious as the yellow
of its fucked-up smile: so toothy,
and it’s oozing its own putrid jelly
too. I’d like to scrub the fuck out of it
using spray that’s meant for caked-on goo.
Did I mention that this Fuck is mute?
What would it talk about? Could a conversation
with it be astute? I don’t give a Fuck
a bone, ’cause it will chew. Don’t trust
that fucking sneaky Fuck. —Come now, ladies,
best prod the hungry thing into a corner
away from mother’s Foam-Blue® Doulton formal set—
and let it know, “You are not welcome, Fuck. Now shoo!”
An earlier version of this poem appeared in Entartete Kunst Literary Review.
Lauren Brazeal has a father, a husband, a brother and a son and therefore is surrounded by the patriarchy at all times. Seriously though, preconceived notions about how any group should express themselves only serve to silence. All art should be loud. You can find her using her outdoor voice in other journals such as Painted Bride Quarterly, Folio, Salamander, online at Verse Daily and soon on DIAGRAM.