"Give me realism"

"Give me harsh realism
not that
surrealist bullshit
with abstract context
that really don't
make up a story."
She sat there,
papers in hand.
Staring at the poems
i submitted to her.

"okay"
i replied.
"Trust.
Thats a harsh realism.
Letting someone fuck
you from behind and
trusting their not
gonna break your neck.
Oh thats not realistic?
It's improbably, not impossible
so thats fucking realistic.
Far out, What about love?
How about the realism
with that? You fuck me
like you love me
but you kiss me
like you hate me.
But thats real, thats fucking
realism. Thats how it is,
a harsh reality. I love a bitch,
i can't do shit about it.
How about cores? Lets
talk about souls, the
things people are
meant to have. The
harsh reality with that?
Our grandparents sold
them when they dropped
hiroshima and nagasaki,
or a toy tree, where girls
who get raped
at the spot come
back and tie
toys around it.
They all fucking
realistic, and thats
pretty abstract.
So shut the fuck
up before you
tell me none
of my shit isn't
realism because
i rely heavily on
surrealistic metaphors,
you cunt."

I got up from my chair,
spat on her desk and
started to walk
towards the door
when-

"Okay, pick
up the cheque from
the front office,
i'll call them now
to tell them
to write it up."