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| False Prophets, Analog Collage. |
Thought Crimes
“But he was a father”
They say, as if the limbo bar of
having had at some point
lost control inside the body of a woman
makes a man more valuable
As if we should care more about Saddam Hussein for this reason or
many other a large-mouthed and small-minded
little gunstroker
Shameless arrogance a
Hot honey burn on the roof of the mouth,
a regretful meditation
Some have no one to make a meal for
they lock their watery eyes in the mirror
stroke their victimhood gently in the dark,
each reflection congratulating the other
on their shared capacity for callousness.
Come now,
As a fellow spitting cobra who
Overate my savory dinner
Normally a straight venom shooter
I am also quietly unsettled by
Esophageal recoil at 3am
Belly distended, uneasy
Aren’t we all fragile and imperfect beings?
Our collective thread, vulnerable
Tired and soft-skinned
Butter aftertaste
