Here's one that might be a little tough on the ears,
but here it goes.
"New World Gag Disorder."
I walked straight into the wars--
One more time.
I walked straight into the war cabinet's office
and demanded all gaggers to put their hands in the air.
This is a citizen's arrest, motherfuckers.
I was a real Charles Bronson.
The room was empty and a vast stillness surrounded me
like a bunch of slow motherfuckers
who'd just got caught in a game of freeze tag.
Up with those arms.
Ya basta con las armas, but nobody.
Nobody.
Before I left, I heard the sound of high pitched men
counting blood currency and foreign weapons arsenals up
for the renewal.
Before I could say, "begone gaggers," a large chandelier
fell at my feet and the new Apple Watch
I just bought on eBay got popped by a sniper hiding
behind a rainfall of heavy burgundy drapes.
"Damn gaggers," I shouted, "the price for admission
is the motherfucking price you'll have to pay,"
so I relieved myself on their fancy Sotheby's rug.
The warm mouthed gaggers laughed and whistled from the ceiling
where they clung like bats.
I heard the repulsive toenails scratching all those gaudy
fucking ceiling fixtures above me.
They ate cantaloupe and stroked their dicks upside down,
drippings fell on my head.
And in an instant, I found myself
tumbling from a 68th floor window.
Gaggers, I quickly learned, possess the uncanny ability
to draw a precise outline of the human body milliseconds
before they kill your ass.
Preemptive cartography.
Erasable public art.
An outline of my gasping stature somehow
sketched by the time my body sacked the pavement.
I was so much smaller that I never imagined myself to be.
The sound of my body's impact was a nervous man's gulp.
Snug as a condom, the chalk line held my body.
Between the womb and the tomb, I wish I could have had more sex.
Maybe even a child or two.
And this is what saddened me as I
sat like a small heap of costume jewelry splattered
across the avenue's sinister imagination.