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Plastic Liquid
My victims were chasing me.
My crimes;
They weren’t so in love with me anymore.
Little plastic bottles melt
The liquid plastic is cooled
By the liquid which escapes them.
The escaped liquid dries into something
Which cannot be called victory.
These people, they kill themselves
In advance of their murder.
They look beyond the mundane
With fantastical imaginings
Which people imagine
Who are mundane all along.
Authors of shriveled tits
Speak of young men fucking
Somehow I am turned on
And Donna Tartt is too chaste.
See little kids
Whine and whine
Little adults
Are brave souls,
I mean they are just kids.
Little men
They scream shrilly
With their little grasps
Determining the fates
Of men
Who were belittled
In ignorance of the vastness
Which could only flood
What would dry.
