All we’d need is such a power in the hands of a compulsive
narcissistic megalomaniac who worships himself
knowing he’s not good enough, so he must
distract himself by rejecting even the thought
of right and wrong, forcing the world to comply
A female delinquent spoke. She described how her male beast was a cock artist. “It lives inside my brain. A Twisted thing, it tells me its secrets – dirty and unclad it hides behind objects and silences. It satiates victims for amusement.”
in a state of des(re)pair our crawling forward blindly to nowhere
at a tipping point too often chalk outlined Vitruvian-
mortem on an urban city street made to feel the press of hot asphalt
but a good foamy piss ascends lung bursting mucus, but a small roll of snot ascends earwax, and so mucus is caught between not forefinger and thumb but piss and earwax and the more you produce the better for all manifest life.
In my childhood there were fathers to fear and nuclear war. Radiation. This was before children were given Sadako and the Thousand Paper Cranes, so no wonder we felt hopeless in spite of the cans my grandparents kept in the basement.
The cataclysm is about to begin;
there is nothing but the dragon
under dead Gaia’s skin.
It drills its gleaming eyetooth upwards
as a hot pick would splinter brittle ice.