No one grasps

how I impersonate Nice.

Deep down,

I’m invisibly cold


Take a mute—


better off dead,

slit his throat,

lynch him on my dick—

makeshift tampon


by bloodstained string

from a menstrually

mauled vagina,

above the scarlet toilet


Bathe his carcass

in gasoline,

put a lighter to his legs—


Meals on wheels,

prime rib, baby!

Go home, relax—


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

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