Scum

Scum

sometimes I am so damned emotional and angered,
playing at first things down by quirky humour, dry and absurdist at the same time, and behaving like a dour hard nut,
but then I refuse to accept their iniquity and almost drown in the foaming drool of my madness, stirring my blood,
straining my veins, flexing my liquified muscles to fight,
lucidly knowing that my crusade will be as successful as any exploit by Don Quichotte,

the reckoning of the heroicWehrmacht at the Eastern Front,
the pleading death-rattle of an emphysemic old geezer,
a baby's smile before it pleases the Lord Jehova to take its cadavre to heaven.

I lurch into passion's intoxication, wielding stiff and rigid the teeming hatred of my ancient soul to crush the vermins of this world out of existence,
with a pain and grief beyond forgiveness,
with the horror and blood leaking from my cavities,
the venom of my spit,
the frost of my esmerald predatory eyes,
so drunk to relish the hate,
the hate for all these fucking assholes
who make other lives miserable for no better excuse than to gratify their petty imposing
crooked nature;
I often wish to eradicate them
after torturing them into despair.

I will set right,
where nature's course fails.
Stop me,
and you'll meet your end.

No concessions,
never more allowances,
only perpetual revenge.