Hate is my love and I cherish it,
A rank infant with no eyes and snaggled teeth
That squirms like a dying earthworm
Stomped into the ground on one half
And squeezing all the struggle into the other half
As if writhing were vengeance.
Charging into battle wielding my own blood,
A pain in my stomach so acidic and so sharp
It wipes the battlefield clean leaving me, the victor,
Doubled over into my gut and spitting blood and singing
I sing with the pride and glory or a dead empire,
I sing the song of Sparta, a wet cough in my neck
That flings oily red bubbles into the air
Squirming in midflight like psychedelic offerings of peace.
Slavery is her love and she bleeds for it,
Screaming in a medieval dungeon as if it were a song.
And if I own her
I belong to someone else, a man who stands in the street
And wears dirty clothes and blows smoke into the sunset
Like a factory that bubbles and smokes and owns the earth,
Which can be bought or sold in exchange for a woman
Who is far too stupid or perhaps too tortured to be made love to
And who could not bear a slave-child even when injected.
She injects herself and leads me into battle.
She sings the song of victory like a Spartan woman
While her empire of owners dissipates and dies like it never existed.
Back.