Fuck the Pig

In retrospect, that painting on your wall
that strains against its frame, which does not fit,
stare at it long: why is it there at all?
What furtive, longing eye does it admit?
That book off on its own there on your shelf,
its loved and tattered cover bleeding red,
what does it say? (I read it once, myself.)
Would Holden leave a comrade there for dead?
All fashions come and go, like drawing breath,
and yet, despite, the photograph remains.
To burn the word cannot compel its death.
From ashes’ ashes, fire in our brains!
The poet loves you; grieve and take a swig.
To gag me, he must kill me: “Fuck the pig!”