Another poem
about dying stars,
roosters in search of wars,
and old people’s shoes
credit where credit is due
but why do you never write
like you love, with your mind, body
and soul, all in unison but with a
lack of control, why do you
not burn the filthy men
who caused you so much pain
you hold in your hand
the power to command a demoness
and yet you chirp
like a cherub on lozenges
Set the stage
and light the powder keg
let the fire cleanse the world
of all its rotten flesh
this fucking world
doesn’t deserve a love poem
but gasoline and dynamite.
