this tenuous blob of sorrow hangs from the back of his throat like a secondary uvula

wretched fool wallowing in a pool of his own traffic jammed insidiousness

the black streaks down his face mirror the immaculate filthiness of his tattered soul

he is playing with fire yet fearing the dark of his own troubled sense of mortality

his skin bubbles and all the joy oozes down shaking arms to form a puddle of insignificance

he stares at me from every reflective surface of spotless morality

lashing knives of regurgitated loathing and shards of glass left like quills in his broken hands

take this bastard out back and show him what happens to hope in this place

stomp the good intentions out of his idiot head and compress his heart until only sand remains

pluck his eyes from his head and wear them as badges of rememberance

drown him in drink and let him sink beneath the waves of his bitter tomorrow

no more sense than a jackass fighting against the cart he must pull ever upward

anything to spite the masters even if he must carve the nose from his skull

they’ll have their pound of flesh in this canterbury tale of glorious sinners and saints

take him from my view i tire of listening to his pathetic cries and pleading demands