If nature truly sports slaughterhouse manicures
and makes every mouth a killing floor,
who are we to whine and wail
about the goings on about town?
Ideas neatly folded in six inch squares or lying on the grimy floor covered in beer mud and regret.. poetry that inspires a dull throbbing pain in the center of the forehead. circular reasoning and deep insight. My only contact with the outside world. a panopticon.
