My Life Sucks

I wish that the world would just melt away
To leave my solemn skeletal body to decay into
Little dusty figurines of the gods in their naked form.
The gods who so apparently live to disfigure my reckless face
And burn my organs with the studs of the cigarettes that I so despise,
Yet consume… just to consume.
I hate the way the moon pulls the tides making the water scream with agony
While the French fuck in the back of my convertible ass.
If only this life were made of dead dreams dreamt by the insane
And the incurable disease of hate.
Hate served on a platter in front of the blind king and his court.
The hate that pours out of the fountain pen between thumb and finger
Of an unhappy youth. The hate that festers and lives inside my brain,
Waiting for the right moment to tear down the soft fleshy wall of my skull
To burst out in a horrendous roar of blood and gore.
The hate that I hate.
The hate that I love.
The hate that dwells within the beast of
All the pour little children of the third world countries.
I wish there were a way to tell you that the world is not round.
It is not flat either. It is a giant blob of death, sorrow and despair.
Spinning endlessly in a fishbowl, picturesque of our solemn universe
All the while streaming out cries of agony and lust.
We all cry out for the undoing of ourselves as we slowly wrench our souls free
From their metallic bodies to be placed in carcasses of fluid ecstasy.
Why do we live?
If but to die in a scream of agony and pain,
Regretting that we ever had the valor to convince ourselves that we could not die.
Fie, Fie on the sorry ass’s living their shitty lives.
Fie on the kings sitting in their skyscrapers all the while
The livers churn away as they work for their ubiquitous and fat masters floating
Ever presently over their heads.
If for a moment I saw the gods in their naked form,
And realized that if I could touch them I would bring them down to my feet
And stomp them with all of the hatred of the world.
Stomp them into the blood soaked ground where once
A million soldiers fought against great odds,
To die for a spit of land they called their own.