Pretty Boy

"Uh... what did she just say?"

Pretty Boy

A Rant by Alejandro Manuel Espinoza

“ ‘ Say it.’

‘I’m a false prophet and God is a superstition.’ “

“But I must say, if you play with matches you will get burned.”

Pathos. It serves as a basis for a few words in the English language.

Apathy

Sympathy

Empathy

But most notably, PATHETIC.

All humans come from a womb – but who, in all her homelessness and loneliness, is searching for a womb to crawl into and infect? The pretty boy knows where he comes from – the pretty boy doesn’t fear and crawl into the fleshy womb when life rears its ugly horns. Only roaches scatter when the lights turn on.

But I saw you , oh most wonderful and powerful seer, violating the uterus of your dream matriarch. I see a sad, bloody, homesick abortion. 

The pretty boy is what you see. This further proves to him that you can’t see past the dermis. How masculine of you – your psyche so ingrained with the psychology and obsession and longing for a phallus – that you do, passive aggressively – penetrate the tightly woven fabrics of characters of which you haven’t the slightest clue. 

Who is the rapist?

Who is the raped?

Who is the violator?

Who is the violated?

But the pretty boy is just a kid. Hell, he cant possibly have gone through any type of pain. He’s untouched, he’s pure, he’s a moral virgin. His genitals don’t contain a wrinkle – and his balls haven’t dropped.

Because obviously it takes more than seventeen years to understand what overwhelming pain feels like. 

But I understand, really. I’ll tell pretty boy that he’s nothing but baby food. Soft, moist, amorphous, and easy to regurgitate. But, before you vomit, just tilt your head back. Keep it tilted until you asphyxiate. That is, if you haven’t already trying to swallow your ignorance.

The pretty boy is your invention.

Who is the rapist?

Who is the raped?

 

Your hot potato only burns hands

You’re an instigator, who hardly understands

That anything you touch with your psychic hands

Is automatically soiled with your pretentious glands

And if your test of maturity I do not pass

You can shove that potato right up your a*s

Pretty Boy only asks that you try something new

But you’re predictable and thoughtless, so I guess that’s something you can’t do.

Anyone can rhyme

But in your life, sometime

You’re got to try something with grit

Cause I’m sure people are getting tired of the same old s**t.

 

Author's Note

The first two lines are an excerpt of dialogue (Daniel Plainview yells this to Eli Sunday) from "There Will Be Blood" (Paul Thomas Anderson) and the third line is uttered by Vincent Vega in "Pulp Fiction". Of course this is based on a person, so think of it as a string of insults (if that wasn't uh, already apparent).

Reviews

[Bee C.]

This is so brutal and expressive. I could feel the anger, the energy in it building up, pulling me along with what was being spoken and riling me up in response. And I was not to be disappointed. Very passionate, very gritty with your imagery, and I thought the ending was just superb. The rhyming and pacing there was like the crest of a wave, crashing down with the final line, the final word (and such a strong word, too). I adore this poem. I can tell that a lot of emotion went into this piece, and I can honestly say it's one of the best poems I've read in a long time.

[Belle]

This is brilliantly brutal. It's sharp and acerbic. I love the idea of it being a string of insults; it adds realism to a piece which would otherwise be quite experimental and surreal. The whole "hot potato" scenario - plus the line about shoving it! - added a brief moment of humour that made it oddly charming. I also think your use of quotes at the very beginning was excellent, you chose dialogue that fitted your tone perfectly. I really like the opening analysis of "pathos" and its derivatives.