I’m mad, livid, angry,
I’m just a rusted bucket filled to the brim with roiling ire,
And I hate, I loathe–
I loathe so much that there is a heat from a flame from hell
The fire of all things eternal, and wasted.
My time, you know,
It’s my time that they always clamour for
Even the unwanted ones who won’t leave me be
They come for me like rabid dogs,
Itching to get their fix of wasted dreams,
And it’s mine that they want to waste, not theirs!
And if I fight back I am a witch–
Or worse, an ungrateful %$#@&!
Who wants to listen to the noises which I spend so much time
So much time squeezing from my esophagus
As if I were giving birth to nothing but sound,
Yet the sound is also wasted on them,
More efforts wasted.
And I am mad, I am livid, I am seething,
My cup is empty yet it overfloweth with bubbling, frothing acid,
That acid is bile, or something worse,
Something deep within my stomach–
Methinks a snake, or something better,
And by better I mean bad for you and good for me,
Because for once some foreign god has heard my cry …
And it has deigned to deliver me,
From the vampires, the wraiths, the zombies, the corporations–
Whatever I choose to call them, they are the ones whose
Greatest desire is to control me,
And then exhume me.
As if to say: Look, though covered in your blood, we are your saviours!
Ask me again why I am mad.