No one grasps

how I impersonate Nice.

Deep down,

I’m invisibly cold

black-ice.

Take a mute—

quadriplegic,

better off dead,

slit his throat,

lynch him on my dick—

makeshift tampon

hanging—

by bloodstained string

from a menstrually

mauled vagina,

above the scarlet toilet

pond.

Bathe his carcass

in gasoline,

put a lighter to his legs—

ignite!

Meals on wheels,

prime rib, baby!

Go home, relax—

contemplate

tomorrow’s episode,

more spectacular—

more intense—

then go to bed.

Drift away,

to where the world

is a sourly scented STD,

dead in stale blood

on cotton panties.

 

By William Andre Sanders