standing room only


i could never want from you
you contemptible beggar-king
whose metered time and breath
will be celebrated upon its passing
yet to no avail
you lord of shit flies
whose smell is an open secret
among those who sit about you
and hold their noses, and pledge
false loyalty

nothing in this world
was actually
ever yours
not yours to horde away,
nor yours to distribute
but that what you took due to your loathsome
and crooked heritage
you took from others, like a common
beast of the field

and among God’s cruelest jokes
and critical flaws, and cause to be ignored
(if He were not an apparition of a
fools mind)
is your station in society
and yet for you to be self-assured of it
is a joke so great that it cannot
even inspire a single smile


the power you feel is not one borne
of your own wit, you plagued rat,
but one of the absolute terror you
instill to those who sense the supreme
unfairness in this life by your
every succeeding breath

your power is terror and sadness and hopelessness and all more fitting of your nature that you think it is love or respect


that you are not cut down by man or
God or your own folly is enough
to subjugate even the strongest
among us

as they pay 10 hours of wages to stand
on a sticky cement floor, standing room
to taste even a molecule of spit
and be saved by osmosis
by one who has been so blessed

with no
in sight


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