dog2

Don’t be stoopid. It’s not me—

definitely you.

 

1.

Shush, now.

I know

break-ups are rough. Tough like

 

Rawhide.

Ever watch a dog chew on processed cow skin?

That shit’s indigestible; causes intestinal

swelling and diarrhea, etcetera.

 

Funny,

some relationships are (un)just

over-sized break-ups in-waiting,

glazed with meat flavoring for optimal taste.

 

2.

I used to lounge with you

outside in the summer dark.

Under the stars,

we’d swig bottles of Miller Lite

and inhale Marlboro tobacco;

two Alphas trying

to cancel each other out.

 

3.

Shush.

That’s a goddamned lie.

I

never had int’rest

in your use-less

competition.

Now you howl by yourself,

wondering

who will clean up your vomit.

 

It’s not me—

definitely you.

 

© Kindra M. Austin

e98f7eb7f44d4eb6332075e41008d978--th-century-fashion-th-century.jpg

Their need is visceral. Oh!

Pretty blonde girl,

fresh trailer park trash,

junkyard dogs snarl and quarrel over your flesh—

tongues wag to get at your bones.

Twelve years old, and

your marrow is aromatic.

 

Mother’s a full-time drunk, and you

only got a part-time daddy.

 

Good luck, babe;

welcome to Contaminated Manor.

Find your place in the Court somehow

without

letting them taste you.

 

© Kindra M. Austin

 

(image: Pinterest)

Their need is visceral, oh! pretty blonde girl–fresh trailer park trash. Junk yard dogs snarl and quarrel over your flesh–tongues wag to get at your bones. You’re twelve years old, and your marrow is aromatic. You sweat July, unpacking moving boxes. Mother is already drunk.

Welcome to Contaminated Manor–find your place in the court, somehow…

without letting them taste you.

 

 

imag1793Blue “belongs” to the Twats living directly next door to me. Blue manages to slip his collar almost daily. Today, I was driving home from an appointment when I received a text message from my daughter. Blue is loose, and he is taunting Melvin at the window. Fanfuckingtastic. Melvin isn’t well at the moment, and he doesn’t need this aggravation.

Blue was sunbathing in our yard when I returned home. I ignored him as walked past and into the house. One cannot make eye contact with him if one is not interested in playtime. Because he was loose, I had to escort my daughter to her car when she left for work because Blue makes her nervous. He’s a fucking loud mouth, and aggressive with his body–he likes to give hugs. Willing participation not required.

I had decided during my drive home that I was not going to bother hooking Blue up to his line. Because I’m so fucking over this bullshit. Or dog shit. But then he ran across the street and engaged in a shouting match with another neighbor dog. I don’t know that Blue plays well with other dogs, so I called him over and walked him home. I attached his line. There. I did my neighborly duty. But his water dish was bone dry. What the fuck? The Twats suck at care giving. Blue never has water whenever I check on him. I don’t know where in hell’s acres these mother fuckers go to every day that keeps them away from early morning to eleven o’clock at night, and frankly I don’t give a good goddamn. There is no reasonable excuse for this baby boy to be neglected.

My bitch pants are threadbare–I’ve had to go next door and have words with the Twats so many times. My husband cautions me whenever I go buck wild with my mouth. But friends, shit is getting real. Blue is not my damn dog! But I’m the one yelling at kids who think it’s fucking hilarious to sneak into my backyard and taunt Blue. Then I have to put my bitch pants on and go have words with parents who are too fucking stupid to keep their kids away from a dog that could rip open their precious throats. I don’t say that because Blue is  pit, I say that because Blue is an unfamiliar dog.

Jesus Christ. I wish I could super punch all of these bitches in their hillbilly faces.

I’m like George Costanza’s dad at the moment. “Serenity Now!”