filled with stinking bodies.
We bury our dead with dead.
I no longer see intellect
as intelligence. I see it
as a trap. I see the
products of mind
adding disease to the sewer.
Any death is good enough
to get away from human faces,
human voices. Their holidays
are hell on earth, they decorate
their feces with jewels.
Trash is their fancy, helicopters
drop more dead meat
for them to feast on. They
imprint popular brand names
on their chains and sleep
as they live, without shame
or sense. Their presence is
a flaming fence around a squirming
garden. My veins harden.
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