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.