Noel Negele


You think of Nietzsche 
that famous dour profile of his,
like a man appearing angered
as if someone owes him money
some time now and he’s just seen them
walking around with new sneakers on
or something,
and you think of him in his later years
getting bitterer and bitterer 
and lonelier and lonelier still
as he lost work left and right
and you think of him walking home 
cloaked in failure, with dark dark thoughts 
just tap dancing their way through his head 
and as Aurelius said:
Your thoughts paint
the color of your soul

And you think of Nietzsche’s soul
how black it must have been in that
cold German weather —
and you think if only he’d got some good pussy
every now and then, not saying a lot,
or if that cunt in high school hadn’t broke his heart
or if Salome, a woman he instantly fell in all with
upon seeing for the first time in Paris,
which sounds dumb when you think
he’s supposed to be a genius or something,
she’d agree to become his wife,
and take that bitterness off his shoulders
with a hot meal every night 
and maybe, if she gorged on his balls
and shoved his dick so far down her throat
her eyes would go crossed

And maybe, if at night
she’d caress his tormented brow
and whisper in the darkness of their room 
that her precious Friedr was respected
and appreciated though not fully understood
for his unparalleled genius, and that
she loved him and that she would 
always be there for him
and that next time he went down on her
he’d better have his mustache
combed upwards

Or whatever they said back in those times
But then again, who was he of all people
to land an angel like that

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