A master plan, a rafter
marked with an X.
A personal conspiracy
as such is a tacit grasp at
interpersonality. Your heart
on a spit, roasting
center stage, with its
not so secret
aspirations of infliction,
a four-valved bomb. Did
you know that hope creates
exit wounds? Or that repulsion
is a pheromone too?
A postmodern leper
kicked out of coffee shops
by girls with clever
shotguns hidden
in their tiny throats.
You would pay them back,
the ones you despised,
that despised you; the whole
world that hated and ignored
you will eventually have
to cut you down from the
ceiling, or mop up the
remainder of your face.
(2000)
