SWEET RAGE sustains me, crisp from the lick of
silent flames that drip black from sieves of steel and flesh
and renew the force of my contempt.
for the piddling price of a quiet corner
are Prometheuses finally free,
gleefully indulging their lust for fantasy
and violent visions chiefly wherein
more miserable rubes fall from and under
the crumbling towers of
their own ruin.
sleep lightly by your lies to spend
on days where loose tongues betray
their whims, flaunting vice and all your sins
before they find their refuse bins as fuel for future retribution.
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