Poem of the Month - February 2025

The virgin on stage, perfection and criteria,
attentive look, judge with mystery, blurred.
Extremely minimal details reveal sincerity,
but always with a dry, hard touch of evil.
 
Imperfections and false pretenses, makeup,
the black invades, the white keeps skin grey
so the virgin can go on searching for pleasure
for its own parts, obscure and needy, humidities.
 
They pray, oh, they prey... catch and fly away,
Harpy wings, no feathers, only plain old sins.
They slay, slowly, so meticulously draining
one victim after the other, no mercy, desdain.
 
The virgin believes its bowels are filled up
with all the vanities of the holy trinity bonfire.
Whiping the sinners as if they want more
of their sacred touch of virginity mental illness.

When you see people unhappy,
Because you didn't fall for their tricks.

And laugh nonstop,
Because their faces are hilarious.

When you see them moping around,
Because they don't realize what you did.

You stared that gun down,
And turned it back at those kids.

When people see you happy,
For killing all those pricks,

Will they finally appreciate,
This suspenseful drama skit?

I'm the class act,
Distracting you from all the shit.

Tormenting all the teachers,
Because they're always a bitch.

I don't empathize these sorry idiots,
When I rob them of all their happiness.

I like to see people unhappy,
When they fall for my magic tricks.

I laugh nonstop.
Because it's hilarious.  

Horton got it right
We are a mere speck
      Of a speck
      Of a speck, et cetera
We can’t begin to fathom
Why we can’t fathom
What we can’t fathom

A million miles up there
Does not even begin
To touch the surface
Of the surface

The sun and the moon
Barely (in)significant
In its course
No comparison, immeasurable
There are no boundary lines
It does not break nor bend
There is no pre-emptive design
There is no end

You have no answers
There is no end