Oh, Beautiful Sage, Who Showed Me Words to Speak

Oh, Beautiful Sage, Who Showed Me Words to Speak When Situations Tripped Through Mine Fields of Satire and Tragic Defeat, Why Don't You Remember My Name, or My Face, but "Good Morning."

Her bright yellow jackals, who bray in alarm,
holding cradles of mud in their cold, metal maws;
they fuck her remorse and they rape my malaise,
and they bury the bodies of the selfishly sick
in the dens of their shit and repugnant decay.

They drag their throbbing, rolling paws
through broken houses where spirits roam,
and ignore the choking of cloaking dust
from their dense and disorderly golden husks.

Our eyes used to well with those tears of defense,
at their rampant attacks and their shrapnel assaults,
as if bullshit as clean or as human as tears,
could restrain, even simply, that pain unto us.

And so swollen and sickening, start shakes from the floor,
from a long-buried dog, whose inky, ill canines detest and abhor,
my serpentine sense of symmetrical density,
that I have fought so fiercely to fucking restore.

It grinds, at my feet, with it's muddling teeth,
at the sanctity that I had hoped to retain,
but the cigarette smoke, it coughs up a joke,
"so what has become of your solitude, sir?"

At last, disturbed and annoyed, "how absurd,"
I swallow my sins and I kill it abruptly,
with a flick and a stomp, but the rain doesn't cease,
(in October, today,)
and I end in the curb, where that comedian lay.

(Soaking in the puddle of my ashen dismay)
The jackals, they curl into a circuit board sleep,
and I envy them, and the pleasure they reap,
from my suffering.