“Catholic Faggot”
Something inside her broke, and it wasn’t just her hymen.
Blood dripped down her legs.
“What’s her problem,” he thought. He laughed. His name is Simon.
She cries, and she negs.
Am I to accept this as truth? Ghosts haunt my vacations.
I jerked off in church.
The priest is a catholic fag using incantations.
He summons a lurch.
It’s so ugly. It’s an abomination. It’s alive.
The priest sucks its cock.
I watch this from the confessional booth, hidden - I thrive.
The priest of Bangkok.
What’s it like to look into the eyes of your own golem?
My ghosts? Succubus.
Deeds of the flesh confront limitations in this poem.
A bottomless lust.
“Pray to God”
I turned to my friend’
He was praying.
Praying to god, and I was irritated.
Where is god? Why pray to him? We’re forsaken?
“Damn you,” I said.
My friend said he thanks god every day.
Prays to him and says “thank you.”
He thanks god for making him different than these murderers
“Ad Nauseam”
Menace and terrorize the garbage of our sickly society.
In the group chat everyone capitulates to the opinions of a few.
Repeat repeat repeat ad nauseam.
The weak need their master and the master needs his weak.
Smoldering flames engulf a school in an urban ghetto, the dulled screams.
The burning flesh smells like sex, but no one would ever say so out loud.
Spacemen 3’s “Soul 1” plays ad nauseam.
The weak need their scoldings and the master needs to scold.
The wreckage was shown in images across the media for days.
I’m looking right at this mess and I still don’t know what the fuck it is.
Bodies, bodies, bodies – bloodied bodies.
The state calls its own violence law, we commit crimes.
Illustration by Tsurisaki Kiyotaka
holy christ these are awful
have you read New Juche