I was gonna write about how tiresome you’d become,
Was gonna show you how your slander was but pabulum,
Was gonna write some wry and witty prose about how you
Seemed by your actions to have stayed way back in ’92
While all the rest of us matured and worked towards building peace—
How you, it seems, find power only when you spread disease.
I was gonna write about all that, and show you how I still
Can see right through your worn facade—that so predictable,
Expired charm with which you think you can manipulate,
That dribbled from your eager maw each time you’d defecate—
And how delighted you would be when we would lap it up,
How shame was all that ever served to fill your greedy cup.
How meaningless the notion love with all its selflessness
Rang on your life as as you played those whom you found valueless.
But how what on a twenty-something might seem to fit well,
On a man of forty-two leaves nothing to compel.
I was gonna write about all that and post it on my site,
Because though I’d forgotten you until this latest blight,
I’ve learned you’re obsessed with us still, unable to progress,
Devouring scraps that we discard since us you can’t possess.
But then I thought about the time that it would take to write,
About time you’ve already sponged when your words could bite,
About the grueling effort spent on you long years ago,
About the chaos that you caused, your mental vertigo.
And indifference towards your puerile antics gripped me suddenly:
No longer potent, you’ve reduced to mere absurdity.