no one

wants to live

beneath the

laughter,

where ripping

bladed breaths

tear through cardboard

consciences

stabbing, twisting,

gutting the fish

who swim in the

shadows of doubts

and eat the crusts of

stale misdirected

intentions with hands

groping aisle-walkers

from either side

of golden crosses

and dead geniuses

confessing their needs

for gratification,

sanctification,

mental masturbation.

feed the ‘maybe’ salvation;

raise the ‘could be’ flags

of revolting inept insects

crawling beneath the

hairs of irritated demigods

stinging, scratching,

reaching for stacks

of regurgitated

Ambrosia.