the new napalm by Ross Vassilev

you’d cut my head off
and feed it
to Saddam Hussein
use it to fertilize
the white phosphorous desert

the ashes of my
personal sorrow
will keep the stock market up
and fill your barren heart
with atomic warheads

I’m sick of porn
sick of fat
sick of myself
my head bursts out in flowers
that wither under your
consumer cannibal
zombie deathplex
that the hangman laughs at
in his white phosphorous dreams

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