Don't fuck with me
I'm a desperate man.
I have within me the volumes of mania.
The books, leaf by yellowed leaf,
of caged animals.
Of naked, spider infested, strung-out Christians.
Pick-up trucks of countryless patriots
skidding unholy errands past the black church mothers,
shrieking slogans of the bent cross.
Dairy farmers, white to the elbow,
sick in puss and sad, infected, groans of beasts.
Sick of elevation of church mothers so he elevates his brothers from beneath a white sheet.
I covet, in my chest, the text of fury, and I pace this slab in toxic, ink sweat.
I am the verse, and I am the cursory dismissal of verse,
in the name of spit.