Monday, 12 June 2017


Take you for the money,
all the way
to see evil,
the ugly infectious wound it is

a gangrenous ravine, granted,
but like a comet’s perfect round shape
had been mangled in collision,
like the back of the head had been blown away
by a shotgun blast through the mouth

the victim’s back as if ploughed
by a crashing airplane,
the swollen mountainous region
of whiplashes swarming with repulsive life

No, evil is not in the open wound
or the oozing puss,
the rank odor of neglect
(as if by caring
you could defeat entropy and rot)

but Evil hath been there,
like it exists here,
to leave its trace on the face
deprived of sight,
to sell the cornea
of a child born into destitution

No, as far removed from that boiled fish-eye stare
evil sits plunk in repose
complacently in a chair
on a dais of design luxury,
like a stone
in your hand

lacking the hurt you feel

Evil, confused,
as always someone else,
one of them
that signed and approved
all your suffering

and you figure the stone
in your hand
could remedy all,
as if designed for the purpose
of cleansing the human body
So, join them,
and ye be the one to cast it first

Yes, make it go away,
and sleep better,
until you hear them muttering
for you to go away

and you can’t make that vile sound go away,
shun it outside being
like you can’t sue bacteria
for infecting;
no court would have that

No ritual can extricate evil
and sterilize the world
from something that is
essentially a lack,
not even the stone
in your hand

and you thought they were leaching on you
the question is: can you bear being one of them,
one of us all included

or rather be one of them
(they sometimes evolve to breathe here)
breathe human emotion
and read thousands of books
to reinvent compassion,

serving life

until death.

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