man. man is a god
by self-proclamation.
stem cell research pending,
bionic regeneration
forthcoming. slowly ascending
to the climax

of infallibility. god is dead,
so it has been declared.

dress the clinics and labs
in bronze, serve the flesh
of subjects on silver platters,
and render the red cross
gold. we have a death
to celebrate, and a life to live.

let us worship and pray
in the name of what is
manufactured

for the greater good
of this short-sighted humanity.

undress the flesh and stare
down the corpse of liberated
speech incarnate. whispers emanate
from the taut rope, swaying
a withered, dermis enveloped

skeleton. i only witness deaths
metaphorically, beyond that,
there is failure. it comes

in humanity, in faith, in freedom;
someone who thinks they’re free
only when they’re repressed.
this notion is implicit in every deed
done in the name of democracy.

the fuhrer has a new face,
it has been decided. we put it
to a vote. the poll
is your dictator, and we control
it. say what you want,
but the gallows has the last laugh.

the fold on a pre-pressed,
pre-shrunk cotton shirt, that’s what
i am. pressed out in a new fold
on a display in a store.

washed out in a machine
and remembered no more.

i make impressions, they look great.
but any impact they had is forgotten
in less than a day.
i’m content with what i am,
miserable, but content.

working hourly jobs, forever doomed
to pay rent.
an hourly base for a monthly rate.
i can only hope my next check
isn’t too late.

i write in notebooks,
and i think aloud.
i’m not merely a fold,

but a cold, naked cliché
waiting to be beaten by life.

i will punch you
in the face
without pause,
without phase.

under the ribcage,
through the fat.
can’t catch your breath,
prepare for death.

surely quick,
purely a glimpse.
the fairy tale plot,
a love story for wimps.

the script was better
before you lost the erection.
she would’ve been wetter,
but you used protection.

no happy ending with alimony
and child support.
we’ll be throwing up pompoms
and dunking balls in this court.

if the train doesn’t pull out in time,
this is rape. and there’s a bandwagon
you’re all jumping on
that isn’t going anywhere.

women are oppressed, men are pigs,
throw out your tampons and rag
on pads. movements are fads
when they don’t go anywhere.
so join the workforce, and feed
the machine. fight patriarchy,
but fuck it when it feels good.

men are sluts, women are whores,
and we’re all getting fucked
at the same price.
put away your semantical
equivalence detector.

one rope of revolution, fraying
threads begin to oppose,
and don’t know where they were going
in the first place. strands
take us in different directions
when it gets personal, but mine
is headed towards equality.