is not the orange-hot crystalline polygon flame
of sharp-edged heat and screaming conflagration
that bursts through my skin into sunfire spines
and floods out through my eyes as weaponized atomic deathbeams
and leaves me bloody and agonized
but powerful and dangerous and frightening
like a vengeful demon Minotaur cthonic fuckmonster
from a vicious and brutal epoch
when thoughts and dreams were just moments of weakness
Instead, my rage
is a bunch of tiny douchey guys with too-slick hair
cavorting through my veins
drinking appletinis faux-ironically because
they’re too cowardly and status-obsessed to admit they like them
and getting into arguments about which electronics companies
are as bad as Hitler, on the internet
that is my central nervous system.
is the old person, driving 20 in the fast lane
not because he can’t help it, but because young people
drive too fast anyway
and later he’ll take to long in front of me
at McDonald’s, and judge me for wearing a Doctor Who t-shirt
because men should wear ties
and why am I at McDonald’s anyway, the food is terrible
and is probably calcifying my pineal gland
and I know it’ll make my stomach hurt
why do I do this to myself
I have to stop stress-eating.
Maybe if my anger could burn hot enough
some of this filth that clings
to the inside of my eyes, and
licks its filthy, diseased tongue
on my creative thoughts
would be burned away.
But it isn’t cathartic.
It’s just miserable.
And now I’m whining about it