by Nate Hoil
Everything bad that has ever happened
has happened to me at some point in my life.
On a mountain of skulls, and gripping a clump of my hair in my fist,
I raise my decapitated head out to the legions of dead.
I whisper sweet nothings into my own stinking ear.
What good are your twenties,
except to learn that your madness is fabricated.
Somewhere between the nursery and the nursing home,
I find that there is no God if there is no algorithm.
I speak to vermin.
They tell me they’ve been studying my trash.
When you make mistakes like I do,
there are no more lessons to be learned.
Every time it rains, I want to swallow someone’s mouth.
Slide your briefcase over, and your bulletproof vest.
This room is still mine until checkout.