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.