The Worst

The worst could be held
at guantanamo bay.

Those things that would cause
us to shudder, at the mention
of the heinous things they’d say.

Forgotten disdain,
forged again and again,
turned beyond recognition
into pulpous corpses.

Perfected stories
altered, repeated,
each time spoken;
addled lines, pretenses,
to make the story great.

Devoid of realness
left to strafe.



Exalted inflections in layers of tertiary
Inclinations of secondary stout devotees,
Fiercely quell and repudiate in primaries.
Thralls enthralled in flamboyant sparks
Hilariously slithering in verminous mucks
Lest these wiles inhumanely slyly smile,
Sown in gnawing leaps of worth; diminished,
Yammer within negated syncopated beats.


Indicted collectives of homo erectus;
Throngs of indiscernible objectified masses.
Thoughts wrought with re-applications of rules
Of anecdotal malformed ideologies of misgivings
Of prescribed biases latched in netted implications
Of disoriented silvery fibers of whirling madnesses;
Outwardly named intrusive, whilst peripherals slowly
Darken, fully encompassing gorges by shrouding molasses.


God could keep his purpose.
He could take every
Expounding great nothing,
Every exonerating. restraining,
Distortion in beauty’s anamorphosis,
Evolutionary or mutation,
He could take these things
And shove it up his omniscient ass.

Oh yes,
It’s purpose.
But this purpose
Can go fuck itself.

As I am Reminded

Idly, I sit on a carousel,
Watching the world spin
In rudimentary patterns.
As embryonic tethers
Of feathered monuments
Flail in the wind.

The weight of bouldered physics
Heavily maintained on shoulders
Promise inevitable collapse.

Manipulative appraisals of blame.
While definitive decisions
Were made by disconnected bodies.

Which statuesque hand
Carried the weight of
Preemptively decided factors
When adorned repetitive
Processes chose paths
That severed connections.

Volitive redundancies for the sake
Of preferred lettered emanation.
Is the quasi-stagnation of happiness
An invalid motivational pinion
For what you’d call the calculus
Of your archetypal scheming mind.
Does another’s broken wings
Surmount to nothing
More than obsolete passion.
Is there no other road in which
Your wicked heart can travel.

The words you spelled on these pages
About how your love was undying;
Feathery words that held no weight,
As your prophecy of never
Comes to fruition.
Folded into dreams of alien communication,
As one of the best and worst things
That have happened in my life
Thus far.

And then I smile.
And then I weep,
As I am reminded
By one of the reasons
I love you,
In wonder.