Booming red sky in my ears donging a dinner bell,

in hell the wolves pant breathless, beer batter brown

sharp and dripping with blood, and the pain when they bite

explodes like the sun at dawn of the breaking day,

in the end it’s your fault, you classless idiot.

If only, I had I a fork to plunge I would,

sepsis be damned is my sentiment scratching

the record losses catalog, mumbling a masochist

broken glass throttle, covered in Tabasco

salty with fire and shame for what you did.

She said she didn’t feel safe in your hearth

because you are a paper ball, kicked flat

and stinking because of the pain you visited

on us all, for now standing villainous

over yourself straining and weeping in the dirt.

Pain is a parable tornado, each lesson is

as well as never won’t be, for naught is to do

but suffer here altogether in a poison pit,

regret sizzling and sealing our flaps together

until you suffocate, peacefully dead alone.