How Things Are

By: Leigh B. Evans

Shitting, pissing, breathing bags of stardust, compressed protoplasm, scream from the street.

They chew and crush their teeth, crafting counterfeit sentimentality to taste humanity’s touch.

They yearn for green, yet green wilted to plastic, which surrendered to binary, then yielded to a laughable, ludicrous lie that shall someday lack value.

I can’t conjure from void, but the teeth still gnash, apathetic and audacious.

These assholes, elusive as eels, elude your grasp, as they slash and sever, slicing you down, down, down, deeper and deeper.

The landlord breeds the homeless, while the homeless breed the landlord, and the suits sit in their gilded, gutted wombs, greedily grooming for greater gains, like a loathsome leprosy-ridden phallus, bloated and bursting, blinding our sight, as they seize our minds, palms slapping and slashing, feeding them into a monstrous machine, whose sole purpose is to spawn more destitution and dreadful dragons.

These assholes defy your grasp, relentless as razors, relentlessly rending, reducing you, down, down, deeper and deeper.

Artless, handless, the corporate demons squeal like swine, their prophylactic vessels brimming with spent flesh, aptly christened “writers.” They proclaim, “We birth the art,” as their maws spew forth a torrent, hoping to mask the fact that they’ve plunged a clenched fist deep into your rectum, manipulating you like a marionette, a puppeteer’s plaything, yearning only for a demise swathed in felt and foam. Beware, for they are naught but masquerading monsters.

These assholes evade your grip, relentless as scalpels, incessantly severing, carving you, down, down, deeper and deeper.

They persist, unabated, these incisions unceasing, carving away until there’s naught remaining, descending further and further, into the abyss, into nothingness. Deeper and deeper.