The Lady-Killer

The uterine is blasphemous!
His desultory words matched his affect —

Didn’t you have a mother?
Don’t you have a significant other?

Have you been to the Levant?
Do your needles pass an elephant?

You must know of what I speak —
Riblets, man! Riblets!

The tzela. The tzela, man!
His spittle spray profuse.

He had my father’s eyes —
That madness innate.

Semiotic spew —
Signs arranging and rearranging
In obscure topographies.
He wrote his own hagiography.
A drug-addled Rasputin shooting
Lasers from his third eye.
Healing hands like cudgels
Ready to inflict . . .
What?

Confusion, delusion, repulsion,
Disrepute.

Go now, you unmoored ghost.
Back into the recesses of a lunar mind.
Back into forgotten memory . . .

until the next visitation.

What I’m Reading:

I don’t want to have to go to work for someone else. I don’t want to have to participate in an economic system that leads to, you know, bombing a school of kids on the other side of the planet.

— Bike Farmer / “What Am I Even Doing Here, Instead of Working?” / Instead of Working