you think...
that i don't possess the capacity
to **** you?
that i'm a: once in a blue
moon idiot?
you keep tugging that
the rubber-band long enough...
and one day it will snap...
i like sitting on a window-sill
akimbo like a turk...
        long into the night
breathing the cold air of
winter...
       i find it staggering that
people think someone might
be not prone to the intelligence
quotient, without
the risk to actually killing them.
     i mean killing them,
discarding them like garbage into
a ditch,
of course i don't invoke
cannibalism, a ritual, a purpose
for the dead body...
        i mean: garbage,
pigeon **** is worth more.
        people never balance the equation
that you might be intelligent
enough to incubate a Cain...
         because they deem you a helpless
idiot who can do no harm...
it's quiet funny to watch...
         but then it's funny seeing them
teasing you, testing you,
  you just wait... and pounce! lynx with
a human larynx!
               but then again human tribulations
are so stiff that they're beyond dead...
   and mind you: the boredom
of hierarchy...
                     it really does become
so much easier to cut the head and *******
prior of someone who does't map out
the koran with his forehead...
scraping the divan with wrinkle as
his understood claim of a signature...
             first come
the people who underestimate your
intelligence with the capacity to ****...
           you can't be a ******* if you
can comprehend killing someone...
   the first sign of being a recipient of
beyond rubric intelligence is the comprehension
toward this transgression...
              as taboo goes...
                      you have to comprehend
this ******* to its most exactness...
     shame if you deal the wrong card,
and maim rather than **** the thing of interest...
you really have to have enough
competence to comprehend killing someone...
as best instructed: it's better to find
the feminity in that diabolical artefact...
to wind the womb among the testicles...
          who am i?
         i just stated that for anyone to
have any intelligence, they can comprehend
the potential of killing someone...
that's the basis of intelligence...
   killing someone encompasses enough
emotional content to extrapolate feeling
inadequate: jealous...
           but only when you're successful in
murdering someone...
            i hope your people suffer 100 times over
to suit my smile... i hope to
**** your mother in hell....
                                     it's beautiful like this...
i know to whom i write...
                   like you inclined me to deserve
a fact: that your mother shaves the ***** hairs
roosting on your father's back before
she decides to use it for a scrub while she slumbers...
oh i hope for death, like a god...
i wait for death like a god...
                  i wait, for death, like a god...
all i can see before me is men
       waiting for being aged 90 and then death-bound...
i wait for death like a god...
i can't wait for it like a man...
i wait for death like a god...
   i lost the humanity in me to await death like a man,
pickling my youthful and foolish enterprises
   into vitamin pills and other rainbows;
i wait for death like a god;
                    i can't wait for death like a man,
i can't wait for death with an expectation
to live to 90...
   i can't wait for death like a man...
i wait for death like a god, like i'd be standing
at the altar...
   i wait for death like god, like i'd be
awaiting marriage... or the haven sleep, should
the tale of immortality be untrue...
  i wait for death like a god...
                  and in my wait,
i have nothing worth describing as man,
or napkin, or a spare tire...
                                   hear! hear the Finnish mermaids!
there i sleep... elsewhere only custard of
traffic, and the waking world of civilisation
being remindful of its own lack of sleep...
  i wait for death like a god...
and yes, i'm competent in the rhetoric of euthanasia...
i know where Switzerland is...
             i'll die rich enough to pay for
a 5000 quid death...
                    i wait for death like a god...
i'll take the restaurant napkin with me,
    i'll take the handkerchief with the snot with me too!
   well, whatever trivial comes
trivial deserves noting, after all: newspapers
have the genre: tabloids... why should
i feel unable to note down some tabloid
                   realisations in my short life?