Angry Rant for Open Mic Nights
I want my ex-lover
to end up like Sylvia Plath.
I don't care that she'll be famous
because she'll also be DEAD
and life is full of these little trade-offs.
"Did you know I once fucked SYLVIA PLATH?"
I will ask my angst-ridden monochromatic 14-year-old,
and I won't stop with my kids;
no, I will write a TELL-ALL BOOK
and the WHOLE WORLD will know about the time
she used a bottle of expensive hand lotion for a DILDO.
I will DETAIL her obsession with dental hygiene
following an ex-boyfriend's request
to brush her teeth before kissing,
and recall how she once crashed her computer
by over-loading the hard drive with
BAD SEVENTIES PORN.
I will share the pain of being forced
to look at melon liqueur-induced vomit
by an ex-lover FASCINATED
with its EXQUISITE shade of GREEN
on an average of TWICE A MONTH because,
no question about it,
she was a binge drinker in the extreme.
My publisher will pay off her older sister
for a copy of my ex-lover's high school yearbook,
which I will use to back up my claim
that in her youth she was blonde,
a cheerleader,
and wore FUZZY PINK SWEATERS.
The suicide, I will conclude,
was just another STAGE,
and thank God,
or she might have gone on
to paint sad clowns.
Then I will go on the TALK SHOW CIRCUIT,
and Jerry Springer will want to do
an episode pitting me against an ex-lover
who remembers her FONDLY,
but settle for a family member
when he can't find one.
Soon the other ex-lovers
will be writing their OWN tell-alls,
and the talk shows will be inviting all of us
for PANEL DISCUSSIONS.
I'm not worried.
As my ex-lover's FIRST LESBIAN AFFAIR,
I have an edge,
and there's no such thing as BAD PUBLICITY.
I'm sure my ex-lover would agree.