mass ******, ****** masses
of other inferior classes
the tempest does this to beatific butterflies
locusts do this to the fecund fields
we do it to fair game and fowl
but we evince a primal howl
when it is done to our own
somehow surmising we hold the throne
and are of such lofty creation
we can engage in desecration/decimation
of a trillion voiceless vines
and all else within the confines
of the kingdom of lesser beasts
fodder for our feral feasts
were the “chosen” not fodder for…
Reltiha?

A *** in one hand,
some ***** in the other,
a syringe in your top pocket,
and tablets you stole from your brother,
it wouldn't matter your gender or your race,
I would have respected you for your face,
if there wasn't metal hanging from it,
or your body lashed with ******* lace,
and hair dye misused and misplaced,
your stomach hangs out form your top,
your head is so big it's about to pop,
your skinny arms do nothing but stop,
tattoos that make your base drop,
you are the most unattractive of the lot,
yet you are my friend,
so why do I care?

Because I will protect you,
and you will stare,
at my sinless life,
beyond comparison,
with more limited despair.

In a kingdom full of inclemencies my hubris does not fail me
Profuse and Fierce, Some may call me arrogant
'Hubris!' chuckled I, 'Yes Hubris!'
It's a recording of my failings.  
'It's that amorality,' I muttered.

My hubris is my substratum towards my nescience.
It is that aspect that will lean me towards drowning in the sea of my own incoherent imbecility.
It's a deep program in my faulty code, a nightmare towards monks.
It's the ink on my arms, tattooed to my soul.

'Hubris!' chuckled I, 'Yes Hubris!'
It does not fail to show in my wording.
It's the ferry to sea, the net in the ocean.
It is limber as it is inventive, with every exception.

It has no ingenuousness, it is unlike modesty and threatens to surmount me.
It's a sandwich in which has caught every hitch of breath, it leaves me bewitched, no certain pitch that I can tell afore it chokes me.
It leaves no correspondence with those around me, too caught up in my own fantasies that I can no longer celebrate or verbalize felicitously.

Many times I wished that I preserved my receipt so that I could trade in my Hubris for something a little less mucusless for it is something akin to Judas, and I cannot utilize it for anything utilizable.

If I could somehow find a way that would lead me to a resilient recuperation. I would judge that to be more utilizable then this Hubris that encumbers me. No matter how many times I beat it down, it war's like a lion and a bunch of tourists on a safari.

If only this grotesque lion-like hubris was shot by the doter of a hubris poacher. Every generation would be gratified and they would find that it is much more facile to coerce without that unpleasant Hubris.

Of course, I suppose in a way hubris could be utilizable in some situations that required it. If I somehow found a way to trade my hubris for something like modestly and found that I missed my hubris quite dearly. I would laugh at my incoherent imbecility and perceive myself to be remotely mad!

These ravings of my hubris I'm quite sure because I found it so consequential to indite a poem of stark preposterousness. In a contingency like this, I suppose my hubris is getting quite polished, so sharply able to strike down any sense of modesty.

I conjecture this is the terminus of this arrangement, please omit my hubris for a moment. I suppose I should give you some tea afore I dose myself in a salubrious dose of radiation.

A word I hate
that you started to use
to describe anything that limited you
That now I fear.

18 years we were together
true the last few years had issues
but there always seemed something
worth saving as a friend and family.

When we talked about us
and what was happening
I would ask you why you said things
you would say your words don't mean that.

You even said you were surprised
that I was not more supportive
of your first affair
because I was your friend.

But you left for another
and another and now
maybe two more - a new reality
and with seeming amorality.

Oh I know I need to let you go
tis what I tell our daughter
who reads your texts
and is more aware than you know.

But how can I keep hold of a vision
that love means something real
that its is more than ****** adventure
when I start to doubt reality.

How do you come back to love
when you see a cruel mockery of it?
How do you find peace and comfort
in lonely, though pure, isolation?

I am not seeking righteous shaming
but rather acceptance of what is.
but at the same time I cannot say
your is; is right or good or true.

How can you watch another
live in a parallel and twisted reality
while the people we know pretend
that both of us share the same world.

I guess that is my challenge
I can define my reality
through words I believe in
and that keep the same meaning.

Love, trust, partnership and passion
Family, children, kindness and fun
these shall be my building blocks
to build a new reality amidst the dispair.

start the morning, glowing
that's a **** good cereal. don't ******* say suicide. because i know you don't mean it.
or you do.
i know you like this for all the wrong reasons i know i hate you more than you will get.i want you to get it- but you won't. it's a very narrow market,
it's a thin slippery window
and don't ******* center format
because it's time to grow up. you're not losing anything.children aren't
innocent.
just powerless.
the killing comes with experience.
*****-deep in the way you drown in it. it's better for both of us if you
figure it out.

modesty
is the ****-bait of the world.industry is booming. it's been a long day,
binders
break their spines for lovers.bent-
up. gas in the lawnmower. don't care about television. shredded antibiotics- fist full of antacids.  get
god
the **** out of here.
it's all we can do, to stay grounded.
it's
not meant to save anyone.it's not about moral superiority. its's not about being an ***.
immorality is an applied concept. amorality
is more like it.
because mother teresa was a *******.
if i had more time i'd write you a ******* song.
and the kid next to you in class was a *******.
and the killer was a *******.
and
it's all we can do, to get the hell out of here and
slide
into something a bit more comfortable.you
like
different music than i do.we
drown
in it together. like everyone else_let's hate things while i hate you.let's
plow through it all, willfully
and sensitive.

we ate the years.

The seeds belonging to the pomegranate are like that of fervid, scarlet jewels.
Dripping with sinful nectar that warbles a tune of blasphemy.
The heinous partake in communion throughout those cryptic, velvety pools.
Entrenched in that liquid, they amalgamate in sacrificial voracity.

Bodies spiraling into those abyssal fabrics are given weight.
As winds torment their exposed vessels possessed by their charred entrails.
They suffer continuously, punished by shards of rain and fate.
Their innards squishing and staining the ground, rupturing the sacred grail.

The convent is disregarded and attains solace across the unforgiving perdition.
Restrained by the stems of the iniquitous cherry, they ascend the ladder.
Their judgment is wedged betwixt amorality and cruel ripples of shameless frisson.
Declination awaits those whose veins bear the fallacy of the adder.

Eternally facing punishment amidst the breaking wheel's treacherous blight,
Thus their salvation lies beyond even that of the Garden of Earthly Delights.

Pig useful
Meat
Innards
Resistant to filth
Amorality
Omnivorous
Thoughtlessness
Shameless
Fluttered sycophants.
Digestive power
Always singing
Resistant to misfortune
Reproductive power
Hierarchy as life
Warlike
Not afraid of misfortune
Organs similar to humans
Could a pig do that?
Could a human do that.