All the village’s idiots are at my door
                    and ink runs from my hands like blood
from a fugitive does—pour your tears into my
                    bottle as, with chronic ennui,
I battle the curative process of so-called
                     “restorative justice”, finding
in my cloudbursts of tempestuous work what dark
                    elixir purifies my heart

and restores to full force unadulterated
                    courage, enough to ignore those
overcompensated pieces-of-shit whose wastes
                    of existence my taxes fund
and I abhor—come, my love, let us drink of thoughts
                    and other poisonous things they
cannot possibly comprehend, raising high our
                    spirits from their fishbowls’ glasses

toward what heavens they will never inhabit,
                    drowning them all in libations
of venomous words, reminding each one we spit
                    on whose cunt-mouth has the sweetest
of mercy squirts—chewing through their herds to birth these
                    poems indecent enough to
fuck to, since you aren’t what you hate but what makes
                    hating them so tastelessly great.