I Hate

I Hate
By Brian Looney

He really thinks he's something. A jar emptied of all reason and feeling. I see through his transparent identity and I laugh. My sneering laugh may be heard echoing in subconscious sublimity. My white teeth bared in a rictus of painful bitterness. His amoral idiocy springs from his bloated ego. Ever expanding, it will one day collapse and recede into the nothingness whence it sprung. Like the universe. Like all creation, all life, all and all. And all and all and all and all. He is nothing. A beast. A no-man. A being dead inside, beyond redemption, beyond hope, and whipped by innate fear. His burning psychosis leers at me when he opens his lifeless eyes, which is a rare thing for him to do, but at that moment, I can only feel pity.

What shell is this? What hollow, weak thing do I see? Not a human. A human is someone who has principles; who lives by them. This thing fucks principles away struggling through perpetually thick liquor haze fighting for comprehension and in the end losing that battle; that hunk of meat inside the skull by now in rapid decay from neglect as well as misuse. Hah. Hah. Yes. And. The. Stench. Of. His. Decay. Stings. The. Nostrils. And. Seers. The. Lungs. Coughing. With. Repugnance. Infected. With. His. Disease. Soiled. By. Proximity. Damn his cloud of pestilence. Damn his superfluity. To hell with that stinking fuck.

Worthless, valueless, destructive, a self-inflicted mental handicap. A phony devoid of individuality, consumerized to the edges of insanity. Created by society and ignorant of the social question. Deserving of all my flustered pity. Remorseful, broken, and blissfully oblivious of it all. Tabula Rasa. Etched personality. What a horrible, unethical waste. Human decency is flushed down the porcelain throne of capitalism. I hate them, the flushers. I burn with rousing fire, but the rotten kindling are soaked with water. Then bleak despair sets in.

And I cry. My cry may be deciphered to all who listen, to all who reason. It is the epitome of poignancy. My martyr cry, My ascetic cry, My lunatic cry, My widow cry, My narcotic cry, My ghetto cry. I laugh whilst blood squeezes itself out of my sorrowfully open eyes and runs in jittering tributaries down my dirt-cake face, over the wrinkles of my synthetically frozen smile and into miniature Grand Canyons filling each consecutively until every valley, every basin, every depression, every pore overflows with reddish hell. The wounds society inflicts are irreversible, its condemnatory judgments kill. To the victor go the spoils they say. And the ravagers sift through my ashes for glitter. Devil spawned rapist Christians. Goldthirsty demons, all.