beneath the skull of a cop is stone.
he sits, staring, waiting for you to
move: to have the wrong facial exp
ression, to be sea
ted in the wrong position (weight
on the wrong ass
cheek)
and then he stands up, slowly, noticing
your criminality.
casually, he walks at any speed
he pleases, and begins the triviailty
of conversation which ends always
in the same way:
cement box.
he laughs about the game last night
with his friends while you sit in
the back of his car, which is always on,
losing your wits and your “savings”
and your life.
he shines his flashlights in your eyes,
inquiring into your soul with his long
stone gaze,
slowly paging through your mind and
your posessions, taking interest in
what he pleases,
fining you for what displeases
the fools on capitol hill,
laughing indescriminately at your
last free breaths.

yes,
beneath the skull of a cop is stone.
his pupils work tirelessly on the
unsuspecting public,
just trying to get where they’re going
to do what they want
often times hurting no-one but them
selves,
maybe the futures of their future
children,
and he wants to steal your vitality
to fill his quota. as long as he is here,
he figures,
he might as well get you if he can.
he might as well get the ones that no
one wants to see gotten and not get
the ones everyone would like to see
gotten due to lack of evidence/effort.

beneath the skull of a cop is stone,
and in the place where his heart
should be there is a fucking piggy-bank.
oink
oink.