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With eyes flashing like Hemingway’s zealous
Prose, or his shotgun sprayed scarlet,
Tara smirks and makes you a souvenir
Of her mockery: "Your half-assed embittered
Prose lacks the gravity--the lunacy--
Of truth
. It sags like boiled soy."

Wretched vegetarian bitch! Soy
Is her only metaphor, and weak: each zealous
Couplet pushed toward utter lunacy,
Ending in "boy" or "goy" for that Scarlet
Letter "F": forced rhyme. Embittered,
You snag the uneaten pizza, a souvenir

For all the places without souvenirs.
Exquisitely trayf red meat, that anti-soy,
That "I am not," for poor embittered
Spaniards. Complicitous, and even zealous,
You smirk back, glad to be Scarlett
In Tara’s burning cinematic lunacy.

She’s the drama queen, her scepter, lunacy.
Her backhanded compliment is the last souvenir
You’ll keep. Two years from now a scarlet
Kiss-print, shocking and guilty against the soy-
Colored pillow case will recall her zealous
Lust, her animal cravings. Embittered,

You’ll rub it and it will smear. Embittered,
You’ll remember her words: "Love is lunacy."
You’ll unveil bleach: an oxidizer so zealous
That you’ll quench the painful souvenir
Without meaning to. The pillow case, like soy,
Will sit blandly, but you’ll imagine a blur of scarlet.

Even now that smirk gleams in scarlet.
You love and hate and lust, embittered,
And she tells you your poems are "soy."
You’re caught playing a role in her lunacy,
And take the gleam in her eyes for a souvenir
Before she can stop looking so zealous.

That zealous gleam, capped in slick scarlet
Will be your last souvenir when, embittered,
You descend into lunacy, alone with bad prose and soy.

--jurph

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