"I've got this killer up inside of me... I can't talk to my mother, (friends, women, coworkers, associates, affiliates, city council, the internets, the homeless or even your mother) so I talk to my diary."

-that Scarface song from Office Space

To Protect and Sever

Stillborn
But you’re still
Fucking alive
How could you’ve survived
In a world meant
For me and only my kind?

I will bust you
A concussion for your head
For even mentioning
That this may
Have at once been
A free country
You may dread my
Authorit-I
But yours is but a thread,
Dangling cum-bead
Prolonged and held
Realized, expelled
A stress relieved for life;
Beating-off instead
Of fucking my abominable
Wife.

I give you no leave
To leave with your dignity
You’ve crossed my line
Of work
And my Captain’s hunt
For pleasantries
Has softened his own master’s
Cunt
And she regales him with
The moist and somber
Caress of cease-fire
When his bonus is entailed
And child rearing will
Be only the brunt
Of their relation she is to feel.

A soon deceased liar’s smirk
Besets your face
And distaste glances
Off the parlance I accept
Oft chance
You might be a casualty
Of circumstance?
No, forget it.
Indicative of my remembrance
And understanding of causality
Inquisitive I am, to the extent
Of my astigmatic expanse
You’ll be another victim of my own
High-school-football-hero
Narcissism
No matter what’s since been sown
I am still an inferno
Built on residual prom-queen
Rejection-esteem incurred to
Machismo enthusiasm
For the earned which
Then I had failed to receive
East-Bound and Down
To displace my own refused,
Self-denigrating and missed
Opportunities have flown;
All which form a cyst
With a mind even more
Aware than my own.

It sees fit to put
To task your
Narcotic trafficking,
Prostitute soliciting
Overly inquisitive and crass
Pursuit, pursuant to a mirage
Of order, I am the desert heat
You are garbage
Reaching out from the chute;
Accrue defeat
And waylay me at once, you do
I’ve got Grey Goose to buy
After I’m done
Rolling up and smoking you
And how dare you try
To attempt the reprieve
Of offering the idea
That on some sub-atomic level
You are just like me?
I’ve emptied the pockets of SOB’s
Since the fifth grade and believe
That I know one by damn sight of it;
My chosen trade exists
As regency to sift
Foreign currency
For counterfeit.

You are beneath my quasi-reign
And will feign-fall in front of my
Widespread, born divine-prised
Legs, to witness
Trojan War-sized balls are
Bylaws your sun and your moon,
Those two and me
The gun and the shield
Dipping like tea bags
In a black kettle of stars
And silhouetted slightly
By their dull light
Diseased tonsils refracting
One another’s scars
And diminishing rights;
Rights I demand recalled
Recalled from abuse rendered
To independence I
Am unable to share
That should not, I plead
Be surrendered
To even one let alone all,
Who were in my eyes
Erroneously
Born in a Mourning Hall.

-July 23-August 2, 2011

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