no love

don't get too close

because my sweaty dick

is a repeat offender

holding a buzzsaw

that's ready
to slice
you

into two messy pieces,

which can never be put back together.

straight down the middle.

clad in tight black leather chaps,
a white butcher's apron,

and a gas mask.

i am an infection.

i am the friend that's

worse than you're most hated enemy.
i am chernobyl.
i have the urge
to devour
anyone who
passes me
in the street
with one bite
then swallow,
pieces falling
into a bottomless
pit.

on my knees

begging you to take me out

with whatever's on hand,

as i absolve you of past sins

with greasy fingers,

tattooing bold oily x's

on your eyelids

in permanent marker.
blessed child

drowning in tainted holy water.

disarmed.

at my funeral,

i want my corpse

to be turned into a puppet,

strings tied to individual digits

that are able to control

my movements and expressions,

so everyone can take selfies

with a lifeless body in action
before the shovels dig
a hole into molten rock
surging in rivers
underneath the ground
and bury me within.

the sound of falling dirt,
lulling me to sleep.