Published June 16, 2014 by April Fox

This is the part, tiny little nothing man
where you reach down inside where
everything good festers and dies, pull out your
misery and strangle yourself
with your own
fetid tongue.

Street whore cries injustice, plastic face
melting off under the acid of her
manufactured tears
knees bruised and bloody
from too long at his feet
ankles sore from long lines waiting
for the heroin injection
tapping feet, anxious to
return to incest nation
Jesus is her savior.

His head is torn apart.

Outside, stupid girls in hundred-dollar garbage skirts write
crimson orifices in expensive
Moleskine notebooks,
trapping boys with tic-tac birth control
and manifesting

Mothercunt, she is a parasite
in reverse
damaged infant screams for breath
long before it’s born

she says.

And somewhere in Ohio, death
has claimed reality
and the blue bar across the screen
becomes the only thing
we see.



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