35

i think screaming its a silver lining to hatred
its vocalization exercises like those that keep me breathing
under the weight of gallons of processed ideals
and prized women flanking their adversaries.
youre useless. the image of ant lions clawing your skin
is forever scorned by the fire you breath beneath the sheets
male skin stretched across your back, beneath your feet
tread with stiletto heel, and Achilles mentality
because youre so frail
a battle won is a revenge impending
heat struck and taken aback by dementia
you'll die before my spawn have reached their fullest
meek hunger and weak engorged
the suit you follow, the traffic you stop
the deserts you water, the glaciers you melt
knee deep in your own intestines
wary of the last supper becoming the death of your smaller size
you've broken bread with god and you're afraid of image
i'm afraid youre mistaken
because this wine
it's your own fucking blood, and the coming stigmata
its your own grave
and this bread
its your own salvation
but what do you care?
i've nailed crosses to your back because I want religion to wash away
with all of the disrespect I hold for your kind
floating through eons, a host for bigger parasites

34

i fucking hate anger, I hate rage
I fall victim to whims and enjoyment from succubi
my hands are frail, chapped, and colder then
Shiva's snatch
come warm me, come inform me.
dont tread on the tracks on my back
with promise of something real
and dreams of something tolerable
who breaks the camels back breaks the politicians stride
manhole and broken smiles
dont forget that i've treated it well
the small egg you've given me to nourish
a trial perhaps
but dont greet the hellish ghouls
that you see when you look in the mirror
with the same prowess you let me enjoy
i'll stone your god and follow up the bombardment
with a cigarette cloaked in cocaine
how does it fucking feel
worthless and probably wishing you had done things a different way.
well I dont fucking care anymore
because we spend out whole lives digging out own graves with our own toes
and the dirt in my nails I could sell to ancient settlers
tell them its gold
tell you its your lifeline
tell you its the last chance youll have to keep a piece of me.

33

my hands are outstretched my wingspan at its fullest
and I can only beat my own ego into the dirt so far
as to regrow it from its seed
the truest hatred will regrow
the saddest stories will still unfold
a different epic, a different face, a different life
but the pain, it still ails me
the fear of nothing beneath the surface threatens my pride
IS THIS SHELL SO HARDENED TO PREVENT INTRUSION
Oh, Helen, your city her walls
your court in jest
who am i, why are my own hands beating my own chest
bracing for corruption the palace walls
traversed by demons in leagues with the devils
and the carrion will manifest in between my sheets
selling the scent of past lovers to the hounds
and their razor teeth, and her razor talons
and her flapping wings
harpy
and the fate we all predicted
a life spent shallow, alone, self righteous and sowing my own fields
all in effort to wake the soul trapped under the media bliss
and the glitz and glam of a good fuck
well i've traded in my halo for a liter of gin and a case of rubbers
because ill never unearth that fallen soldier
he's joined the ranks in valhalla
wielding their weapons against I
and face to face
I wont remember those days
I wont remember those words
I wont remember the grave danger in loosing oneself.