Even a nuclear bomb up my ass
might fail to move my sad sack, bloated body off of this chair
stuck stupid and slack-jawed, gaping at this screen
(to filter through reality
like stripped shorn pantyhouse in front of a sewage drain
leaving the cigarette butts and used condoms to wallow
in that sepulcher of corrugated metal and chemical despair
letting the fecophilic micro-organisms,
the rich culture medium of turd
float out in the cold of the unforgiving sea)

the words come
like vomiting up a champagne flute
after eating it shard by shard
after someone had taken a sledgehammer to your gut
it’s almost as bad as the Turkish prison trick
where they jam a glass stirring rod into your pee hole
and smash your dick with a ball peen hammer
herpes and chlamydia ain’t got nothing on that sort of pain

and the words are just like pus dripping down
like spit and mucus, the dried crust of tears
and clotted blood
there is so much blood

this despair too much like the flu
and every muscle aches, every move spews forth fire into your flesh
or acid
etching away through your flesh
carving out some cryptic message in your bones
melting, searing, cooking your heart

still

and silent

Better lucky than good.