Paradigm of Death

 
 
 
Cut off within,
without connection.
“Why do I lie so alone, live
desolate?  Look at
what I’ve perfected,
coloring inside the lines
even when shocking pink
was the style.”
Longshoremen in early dawning
stench.  Dead fish.
Seagulls’ wet cry
forlorn. Sea entwined
with sky casts about
into brutal day.
In city gutters,
(homes hide those inside,
but out here)
rabid eyes, aching tense
grimy and sore
another and another cycle.
Cut down wretched bands that swell,
fester, invert pleasure,
ooze septic grind.
Laugh with angry spittle
into God’s eye,
hoping to be struck on this spot.
“No!” defiant “No excuses —
the service is lousy; no tip for
you scuttling scum.”
Echoes shatter through numbness,
erupt abruptly, seep through sleep,
settle into stones and weary sand.
“I told you!  Don’t disturb my grandiosity!”
Working, negotiating plans for
more effective extermination.
Organic stink, putrefying,
must be extinguished.
.
.
.
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