PESKEOMSKUT POEM

I hate the voices of these bitches.
The dope's shroud moving with him, as he talks.
The cat's vain back
as she struts her limited gambit, back and forth.
And every motherfucker eating his own shit,
tell him to hate this place too, on his own terms.
The beauty of earth, suck on it.

The beauty of the rotted blood, suck on it.
And I will proclaim and sing the true name of this land
until the sky swells to meet this place
and the wrath of blood desecrated runs
with all its names alive in the corridors of power.

And if anyone should disrespect,
even in the silence of their mind,
the true name and charter of this place,
my poet's curse will follow them into dark hallways
where their family photos warp with secret error
and dark hairs spill out of their nostrils
like the beards of the living numb.