There are days when I feel
Like I am on top of the world,
As clichéd as that may sound.
On other days,
The South Pole
Impales the heart
Digging through my ribcage,
Crushing me like a bee
Already dead from battle.
Never do I know
Which way the wheels of wellness shall whirl.
No telling how happy
Or hyperactive
The hallucinations of wholeness
Will become.
On many a day,
My toes kick rubble
Sending sediment airborne,
Marking the distance
Between a good day
And fatal felicity.
On several days,
Bushes bridging extremes in demeanor
Stay in tact.
Wary I am of the gardeners
Shaping appearances
Until candid and raw deities
Of the heavily rational
And deeply emotional persuasions
Engage in liaisons
Creating turmoil.
Id on first.
Superego on third.
Ego strikes out.
I stand by armed.
Closed within the confines
Of segmented skin
Sits steel adorned in crimson
Bearing a sign,
Making a statement
That neutralizes all.
The landscaper looks on
Noticing weapon in hand
Surmising that I shall do more
Than prune his leaves
With the sheers.
I would cut off the limbs
And finish the job
With one clean shot
Straight to the trunk,
Ending all malice,
And stabbing the fuck
Out of a bad situation
Taking the form of a family
With the nerve
To share the same lineage
As Mother Teresa.
I yearned to taste their blood
Bitter and ravaged
With the smegma of vultures, maggots, and leeches.
For one brief moment,
I wanted to kill
And damn-near followed through,
Almost feeling like a prophet
Looking to balance out chiaroscuro
Present in the hearts of every man.
Since then,
The devil and I lost contact.
Traces of my wrath
Remain within the quarters of the soil's rapists.
They bathe in my urine
And mutilate themselves unintentionally
With magazine subscriptions
Sharp enough to slit a wrist
Scalp a receding hairline
Sever toenails
Shred confidence
And slice off a hulking cock
Soon to be shriveled
Like the brain cells
Of an Atkins Diet junkie.
They must live
With the havoc they stirred
Not only on nature,
But on that which can be built and renovated
I long to break through concrete
And uncover the beauty of brick
Red and striking
Erase graffiti
Speaking volumes
Without saying a word
Intelligible as the squeals
Of pigs making out
Kissing
Swapping spit with oil.
Come the revolution,
The skies shall no longer
Serve as the mirror
Reflecting souls
Obsidian and opaque
Dark as a plague
Wiping out the population of angels
Residing upon shoulders.
Soon,
These mediocre attempts at civility,
Transparent and disingenuous,
Will not sting like a bastard
Like a scorpion injecting steroids.
Maybe then,
Maybe tomorrow,
Maybe the day after,
I will no longer believe
That the creation of man
Was meant to be God's practical joke
In order to keep his other creatures in check,
As well as other men.
Women too.
Children often.
We must be fruitful and multiply
In celebration
Of the dismissal
Of the mission statement
Attached to mankind.
I live for that day,
Always anticipating
That the souls of the masses will replenish
And that we will no longer
Submit to the urge to destroy.
The only way to murder
Spontaneous manifestations
Of premeditated malice
Is to meticulously maim
The byproducts of hatred,
And when their corpses are obtained,
May they be buried below
Far below
The surface of this planet,
Incinerated by the core.
The supreme demon of division
Shall be exorcised soon enough.
Groin inverted.
Jugular dissected.
Heart replaced.

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