Yes, the flowers are
beautiful
for a while
and the still sun keeps rising
and I see that
it is good,
but still I sometimes wish
that god existed,
just so I could
**** him
up
hard,
a vengeful creation
squeezing that divine
neck
with my bare
hands;
look straight
in his thousand
eyes,
watch him suffer
and anguish
and finally
die
too,
because somebody has to be,
has to be!
accountable
and pay
for all this
****
that lasts
forever
and so
little.

Better perhaps nothing
than this -
to any action
or idea -
all the intricate complexities
resolved,
we will find
it makes no
difference,
and boy,
how would we like
to be
efficient.

But god happens
to like
war
and not
abortion.

So many poets,
so many lines,
so many words
of nothing
new.

They truly believe
so many times
to be deep,
to be meaningful,
to be original.

So many, many
times
they are wrong -
they do not know better:
or worse.

What they have written,
so many times,
I've read before and
oh, so many times,
without the added
insult
of puerile explanations
and hashtags
#after the end.

The meek
may well
inherit
the earth,
but they
too
shall be
broke
after all
the inheritance
taxes.

That's what
I eat,
so that's what
I ****.

It doesn't matter
how thick
your skin
is
when she
is
under
it.

And as the flowers late
to bloom rot

the wait
of the world
up
on
my shoulders.