PEPPER PAIN DIARY /|\ NATIVE INTELLIGENCE

Synapses taste like purple
ice. A wet and horrid thing.
It perfumes its face
But only with death.
The muscleman sits beautifully
over the fireplace.
My baby sister believes in prayers
Only because to her, they’re
Like magic spells.
Some people don’t see your tricks
Because they expect them.
Fear these people,
But love them the most. You owe
Them that much. A savory courtesy.
Yum.
I listen to my parents who I thought
To be historians. Nay! They are
The greatest magicians in the world.
I listen to them over the WhatsApp call,
Casting their middle class,
educated-couple-charm to seize the prey.
And they would succeed.
They cajole the salesman
into an eerie dance—
he dances against his will.
Because he is in their jungle cave now,
The citadel of the deepest of powers.
He will not slip their grasp,
Nor their warm embrace.
He talked jargon about the printer equipment
That they wanted. But unknown to
Him, they resented him for wasting their time.
He was no worthy opponent,
At least, not with their appetite this day.
They craved a Rémoulade strength,
But he didn’t have enough for himself.
He thinks they say they want a deal
In jest. Only he does not know they will
Wrestle his fucking arm to the ground
So he may remain crippled.
That’s the only way I can explain it—
Nay, the only way there is to say it.
We sleep in a fucking hole.
We live in a horrid land.
We fuck in an unhappy country
And so we make unhappy babies.
Who wear upon their faces,
The promise of futile efforts
And living the curse
Of guilt by association.