Gnashing Teeth Outside the Chained Gates

Suck dog water, you itchy scum.
I can’t believe your kind have survived this long.

You probably hold not a clue how reviled you are,
cushioned in your own delusion by a skull thick with illusion.

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I hope you choke.
You fucking toad.

You won’t get away with your hateful game too long.
The wolves will hunt you down, make no mistake.

How you made it this far, you tainted scrap of humanity, I haven’t a clue.
Shouldn’t you have died off with the seven-legged mud crabs and trilobites?

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You’re scum.
You’re worse than malaria.

Exile would be too kind.
What you deserve is incineration.

Death by massive fire-blasting until your hair crisps and skin curdles.

Your blackened crust will feed the urchins,
and any fortune you and your wretched ilk
will sink into the murky mire of obscurity.

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When each of you swine meet your demises, I will dance and sing.

BSB

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Do You Mind?

The mind that for
I can only fathom a guess
over two decades has been
for whatever ill-conceived reason
protected from harm and damage
inside a skull,
behind eyes,
atop a body,
whose digits drum incessantly
in intrusively noisy percussion
on the hard and hollow table-top,
is a mind that seems to me
allergic to stillness,
averse to silence,
absent of concern,
regard, or courtesy.
This mind,
this horrible and annoying mind,
may it enjoy its time
being met with kind smiles
and polite laughter for now
and may it at last and for good
meet its reckoning.
I curse you, O chatterbox.
I curse you, and hope
both your thumbs shrivel into toes
and eventually drop from your hands
into the mud
where they are consumed,
digested as seed-pods
and grow into enormous beanstalks
which yields nary a bean,
ever.

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