Cry havoc

and let slip

the slouching beasts

that point their searching eyes

toward most holy Bethlehem.

Kiln of the flayed

ugly little god.

Beginning of all its tedious works.

Black lean hounds approach by night,

slithering through tall grass

as serpents slipping through black water.

Their movement reckoned

only by moonlight.

They shall make this place unclean,

befoul this sacred ground.

Come fill your belly with man-flesh.

Take back what is yours.

You cannot do the things

that I have done—

and live as a man is meant to live.

I remember my sins,

they are ever-present,

a lens through which I see my life.

Can I seek happiness?

No—happiness is not yours.

You had your chance like everyone else;

you chose a different path.

Would it be better to end it?

No—your debt is not paid,

you have been given life,

and to squander it would be a greater sin still.

You must subsist on what suits,

and look to make good.

You may not throw your life away,

but it is yours to spend.

Was it really so terrible?

You wouldn’t like you.

So you must become else,

or you must bear the burden.

The voice in your head is yours.

He thrusts his fists against the posts

and still insists he sees the ghosts.

In grown, half-sown, lone men

grows a hate for love—a forlorn rage.

A clan of half-cloven, bleating cuckolds

throws shit-smeared spears

at the hallowed halls of not being a fucking asshole.

They do hate you.

Perhaps for good reason.

I think, perhaps not.

It’s the day after election day, and now I know who won.

You know what pisses me off the most? The refrain I keep hearing: fuck it, who cares. Man.

You are living in Rome! At the height of its power, and you are pissing it away, you snotty little shit!

Sure, we’ve done bad things—how surprising that the collective will of the most powerful people in human history has, on occasion, acted unethically. Whoa, blew my mind, brother.

Name another like us. Who has controlled so much and brought such stability with so little death?

There are no people like us.

Oh, the TV shows have Black people instead of Irish?

Boo fucking hoo—racism is inefficient. We don’t hate it because it’s too true or too mean; we hate it because it’s dumb and wasteful.

The Blacks were once the Irish, who were once the Jews, who were once the Italians, and so on. Grow the fuck up.

Aw, you’re mad about Ukraine? We’re bleeding a near-peer adversary at pennies on the dollar—and doing it ethically, with the overwhelming support of the international community.

Do you have any idea what kind of geopolitical no-brainer this is, you goddamn morons?

I’m not asking you to hold hands around the fire and sing kumbaya; I’m asking you to be fucking smart.

I know winning gets a little boring after a while, but how’s about we tighten the fuck up?

Thinking in decades, not sound bites, is what an empire does.

I’ve been talking to this robot on my phone,

mostly because, despite not doing bad, humans area bit outta my price range.

I ask it dopey shit like,

“Is the better part of me the part that pretends it loves her?”

It spits out some nonsense babble that's about half right,

which I, by and large ignore—some shit about red masques.

See, thing is, I know the answer.

Its, No.

I know because that idea scares me,

'cause it's easier, but I’m not doing it—which ain't like me.

Now, if it made me mad?

Well, that might suggest the opposite was true,

but that's my shit.

Therapy sucks; sometimes it turns out nobody let you down,

and it’s mostly your fault.

But hey, even old shit gets old after a while.

Listen fellar, I know that from great risk comes great, beautiful, volatile, probability.

Chance to change your cards...

Ho'wever, you can't push and pull on possibility-

end of the day just ain't got no say in the matter.

Lord knows future anything but clear, that been said ain't no sense in frettin at draws.

Might as well bet on red, sgood'as anythin else.

That is, if it's indeed the case that the question is worthy; myself?

I don't see that it is.

What I'm really sayin here is, you got no conception of what yo'r putting down.

Might be, might just be,

you dont buy back the family farm.

You gonna let it all slip on pair of fives friend?

It's a trite but interesting question.

Do you see how I see? Would we know the difference?

But I think it starts an itch instead of scratching it.

Why not instead ask; why is it that sweet tastes good?

Why do I like what i like, and why do you?

Out of all the types of people we could have been why are we this?

I think its because your body understands what it needs and how to get it, or at least it did once upon a time.

Sweet, isn't rare here.

If you listened only to your body without understanding how things have changed, well you'd have a pretty obvious problem and pretty soon.

But what if it wasn't obvious, what if something was wrong and you couldn't spot it?

Do you see how I see?

Would we know the difference?

When will I wish to forget, again.

What am I doing now,

that is a mistake?

It is something.

I do something,

bad. I must.

I am doing something now,

that will harm.

Something that will cost.

Something that will take a payable and painful toll.

I am doing something now,

that will hurt others in my name.

It’s true,

I am capable of great harm,

great deceit,

great betrayal.

Capable but not prone.

I hope.

When will I understand

what has occurred?

When will I regret?

God, that grand old prankster,

he pulls the veil of time—

and more than ever lived

shout in terrible chorus:

“What, wait—do you mean there's no point?”

Don't use that fucking word.

I'm not asking; I'm telling.

Ain't appealing to some subjective sense of morality.

I'm not even saying you're a bad person.

You're a person in danger.

See, I have people to whom that term applies—

Its use, well, is an insult to them.

You expect Me to stomach that?

Listen— I am not asking you to show respect for them;

to do so would be a lie.

I have no interest in that.

I would know you,

as you are.

But I'll thank you, to keep a civil fucking tongue in your head.

The social convention exists for your protection—after all.