Sunday, May 22, 2016

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.

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