Nyarlathotep, I’m Breaking Up with You
I know that it’s pretty rude to break up with someone on a blog, but since you won’t return my calls and I am like going insane and stuff and I figure I might as well tell anyone out there who is listening. And my therapist says poetry is cathartic, so there’s some of that, too.
I remember when we hooked up it was during the election when everyone was all intense politically and everyone was like “I’m a Democrat” or “I’m a Republican” and you were all, “I dig the flute.” And I thought, OK, that’s kinda goofy, but at least it’s different.
I once thought you were so exotic
tall and swarthy and erotic
but now I see you’re just despotic,
creepy-crawly and chaotic.
You said you were like from Egypt and I was all, “Oh, how cool.” Even though I was thinking, like, I know a guy from Egypt. His name is Abdul. That’s a real name. I mean, Nyarlathotep? Dude, how made up is that? But love blinded me to the stupidness of your name. Or deafened me. Whatever.
Nyar-Nyar, Teppy
names I called out
on hot autumn nights
spent in sweet tangles
and so many angles.
Now these endearments
make me want
to spew.
And the same is true
when I hear the Bangles.
And like, everywhere we went, you had to bring all your friends. At first I was like, wow, he’s so popular. But then I saw your entourage for what it really is. Brain-dead suck-uppy brown-noses, every last one of them. Totally under your spell. I was all, “Am I dating you, or your freaking minions?”
My therapist says you’re probably insecure
and that’s why you seek to control.
Actually,
that’s what my therapist
says about me,
and that I project too much.
But I bet it’s the same for you.
Thursday night was the last straw. I got all dressed up, for nothing. We were supposed to go out, just you and me, to a nice restaurant, but where do we go? Hanging around old railroad tracks at night with you and your monkey-boys—I swear they’re a bunch of tweakers and you probably run a meth lab or something, Nyarlathotep—and then it starts snowing and do you offer me your coat? Take me home? No, your little entourage like starts up a drum circle and you whip out your flute.
How did I ever put up with that flute?
I wanted to smash in your face with each squeak
I swear if you play it again I will shoot.
and I’ll laugh as I throw your remains in a creek.
With sharks in it.
And that’s why we’re through, Nyar-ass-lath-fake-ho-Jethro Tull-tep.
I swear, all you ever wanted was to drive me crazy!
But I will be stronger than that. I will not be your slave!
So, anyway, if you read this, call me.
Illustration by Brian Elig.
(Click on image above to see at full scale.)
For more, see the I Speak Fluent Giraffe Index.
