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Triangular Duck
Folder:
The Rushing Stream of Desires
You have bastardized me,
compelled me to stick pins and needles
into my veins.
Shining globes of tears that fall
from closed eyes.
They pretend to be significant,
but in fact,
they holler their pettiness.
Men with names that do not rhyme
who sit behind computer screens
mangling the English language.
Using the internet codes that
destroy communication.
Have we all become symbols of
people without souls?
As we march around our staples with
guns pointed at our feet.
You have ridiculed every milkshake I
have guzzled.
Mopped away every green leaf
I have held in my hands.
I smoke my cigarette and
scratch my balls.
I eat a sandwich and
terrorize the cat.
Every foot will walk the
way it was meant to,
and so,
the only possible reality
is that which
drinks itself
to death.
Forget the paper.
Throw away your pens.
Make up a brand new plate of exclusionary
triangular ducks.
Roast them in your oven-like hearts.
I begin to move away from
metaphoric prison cells
that have
brought
solace to a hungry brain.
"Good night", I say to the
computer screen.
You have turned me into a paper cut
that becomes infected and
finally, allows the soul to die.
