american. blow your brains out and run
to the hills, die of dysintry just-like
God intended.
the same dream every night.
that i didnt raise a . . .
all of that work. and now look at it.
what to do? and it died anyway.
blue and purple bloated with rubbing-fingered flies,
and wriggling satisfied maggots.
american. standing around this empty
house. sore lips from biting.

once it passes and i think about the bitch.
she did this. encouraged it. let it happen.

its not my fault he didnt know
not to blow his brains out. the rest of them
holding public vigil. snow falls, candlelight,
merry Christmas, white blanket
to cry a deeper red, a robin’s breast.
theyre like him. it.
the guns in the cabinet. one in the drawer.
light it up. watch.

american. so i take the gun like cold blue heaven
and take the streets, shoot them in the back like
God intended.
doing God’s work. one day . . .
no, no dream. first the freaks,
then the fags,
then the bitches.
gun them all down.
american. standing in the empty street
populated by the corpse of
degeneracy. God’s work. no dream.

plane trails like fork-dragged-through the sky,
cut fingers pressed against cotton, bleeding through.
sore lips from biting.

Author: artoria


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