My Little Nest of Vipers

I guarantee it.

You’ll find favor among those locked into the wanderlust cycle – a sore spot on a toe, a boil, a lesion, an open wound.

Life is a three-inch ledge over a vast open space. You have one leg and a weak knee. The rail is smothered in your blood and you’re wearing rubber gloves.

There is no traction.

We’re looking out of dirty windows, smoking dirty cigarettes, blowing dirty circles into dirty collisions. A good writer surrounds himself with people that are terrible at writing. We’re reading their futility like a hawk spies a spasmodic twitch from miles up.


We step out of red doors into the lightning flash of the cold morning. We’re watching. There are leaves clinging to their mother trees, shivering in terror as the wind assaults from the temple of the horizon. Mother’s chest rises and falls like Rome – a blade sharpened, used, and broken. Fingernails split and rip from flesh as those last vestiges of simian shame cling to the back of our throats.

We swallow.

Distance wanes to smothering friction, and the edge of infinity slices through the vision of those wavering on the outskirts of meaning. Idiocy clings to the species like sap, and in moments of rare humor, the sap tips the leaf to death, bent on riding spirals to a wet grave. The sun tickles, prods, punches, rapes, burns.

Burns through aperture.

Wednesday’s man-child four-legs through the marshy indifference of his wicked elders. Time is irrelevant in the dreams of the ancient – the future is a mockery and a sham. Man-child wears the barbarian helm, brandishing the horns of beasts he’s slain through rage and boredom. He tears away the curtains hiding the hag that molests his mind with sweetmeats and tainted water. Under darkened skies, he cleaves skulls both dry and empty and finds nothing in their broken bowls.

Exoneration and Exculpation.

We’re tired of the love story written as if we’ve never experienced the razor bite of lust. We’re tired of the alcohol burn of waylaid wanderers crossing shipping lanes in homemade rafts of artistic liaison. You don’t fool us with your one-act play on the stage of your panhandling circus caravan. You snide. You wilf. You fuck. You meged tuft of emprisant.

Ipseity on five horses and death from above. A torrent of advertising refuse – the long discarded jingles of the generation that first sold their souls to the flaming demon at the center of Greed and Self-loathing Impotence. Hark! You vacuous toads. You scum-eating slime. You empty men. Depart. Flee. Explode.


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