Thoughtless

Thoughtless

Mark Coleman

All the stupid fucking people, and all the stupid fucking things that they say and do is all that is left. They drag you into their worthless commercial-quoting world. Their profundities are read off the back of their slutty little pieces’ heads. They expect nothing more than for their shallowness to be reflected back to them by those they meet. Coddled and cockheld by all as valueless as they are. Self-fellating the scum residue that grows in their eyes, spreads back of throat, and barrels into the gut to come up over and over again. Throwing their backs and breaking their necks to lick their own assholes. Then dutifully reporting it to all passersby.

Wanting to stab myself in the neck, listening to their odious television parroted maxims. Walking tall and arrogant through a world of self-created desolation and waste. They pick and they pick. Half the time they don’t know if what they’re picking is a scab or a fight. But they continually pick, regardless. Even when they should be putting guns in their mouths, they blah blah blah.

Never grasping what is so pitiful and disgraceful in their every utterance and muscle twitch. They pride themselves on their pride, and gamecock it to the front of the golden shower queue, day in and day out. Then sit around and gab their shock at being pissed on. Pissed off that they could have allowed themselves to be taken in and raped in their short skirts. Misled to slaughterhouse destinies where the bolt gun does the henpecking.

Bits of brain and skull fragments stopping up the drain. The blood baked into the frocks. The helmets dented with spewed skeletal shrapnel. The cleavers howling downward in mincemeat greed. Neurotic butcher blocks in dervish fall. Down and out. In and out on the street corner with their cocks drip-dripping fluorescent green into overeager whore mouths. Bloated with St. Vitus’s Dance upon their disease ridden lips. Eyes dreidel spinning behind lids half closed by a pain so ecstatic that it can only be described as the greatest of pleasures.

Whipping it out at the first sign of a glory hole, and praying that an untrimmed mustache will tickle the base. The walls stutter-spattering semen with every exhalation. The force of a million stolen orgasms tearing the toilets from their bearings. Emptying their contents on the extreme day-trippers who compete to see who can catch the most sewage, and shove it into their freshly torn open cavities.

Where it will convulsionary fester and incubate while still being incipiently practiced. Tumoring and blowing out like ruptured ulcers through makeshift squawk boxes. Jaundicing exposure creating rotted persona non grata bookies and stabby rock peddlers. All paying lip service to a god who should have gone the Titanic route, long ago. I rip off the nearest bitch’s crucifix, shove it under her nose, and repeatedly scream in her face, “CAN YOU SMELL THAT? CAN YOU SMELL THAT?” Her nostrils rodent quiver, but nothing registers. Left to watch the shit tube pupils contract in astonishment until my eyes bleed, and my kiss parched lips seal over any thought left in my head.