that’s crazy, man. that’s awesome. that’s

elite. I love how inconsequential it is. I’m

loving the inanity. like how it doesn’t matter to me

even a little bit. I like how small you are. I’m

really digging the patheticness. I could shit

on you. I could palm your head and dunk it into

my kneecap. I could force you to the ground

and play with your hair and throat.



this shit makes me so angry, you know that?

I know that. nobody can ever leave me the fuck alone.

they’re always asking me to do this and that.

and I’m in this fucking cesspit of buzzing annoyances.

the glare off the cars in the parking lot;

the little bits of paper crowding my desk;

smugly content people coming in and out;

and I’ll never know what the next thing is.



I need something to control. I need something

to use. to fuck. to maim. I would do it all to them,

but I can’t. my spine comes alive at the

thought of it. I could say to them, “Listen

to me. This shit is fucking stupid. Listen.

What’s important is that you get on your knees,

that you know your place. What’s important

is that you can be very good for me. It’s

important that you shut the hell up. God.

Finally some peace.”



idle maniacal dreaming. what am I here for?

what are you to do with me? pinging

ricochet activity between my rage and your

otherwise ragdoll tendencies. I can only

make you aware of how insulting it is,

how infuriating.



and if I’m useless, that’s even worse.

dead rage festers inevitably. toxic waste

hazard in your fields of mustard seed. I’ll

cut you a deal. I’ll fuck with the bastards

who’ll twist your limbs ‘till your joints rend

like chicken skins. I’ll post up. every club

needs a bouncer, and you’re mine. fancy

bitches like you need a strong hand outside.





the place that contains the list of the containers of words