Wiser with Time

This is not a time where being nice has its advantages. Being curtly polite is the only thing that we can offer to such despicable cowards who fester in the slimiest of puke-holes, repelling other such loathsome life-forms. Known to only the most remote species that evolved from stagnant feces so ancient, it had a life and body of its own, the dwellers drip with deceit. Vapors light their path, preceding them with a proud stench, as they traverse hideous fields of rotten rubble and refuse. With our strides so light and agile, our footsteps erase their own remains in hasty wake.

    We do not heed their morbidly obese warnings as they wobble with self-contradiction, their falsehoods becoming confusingly entangled with every pathetic maneuver as they writhe in the stupidity that is their fruitless dimension. They are not worthy of a glance, nor even a nod. We will not listen to their breaths as they exhale excuses and sharply breathe in the cynicism that blinds them from their own contemptible reflections. There is no way to make up for the fact that their very existences drive stink-bugs to the grave with one mere whiff riding the traumatized breeze. Like sticky fingers lumpy with the debris of past, present, and future abuse, they massage one-other where it matters the most: precisely at the center of the top of the head where a soft spot is ever growing, where the skull never actually closed as there was not enough bone matter or brain substance to form complete structural spheres. Attempting to make up for their wrong-doings, only because they wish with all their acid hearts to commit even more fraud and destruction the next time around, they sit on their hands, defecating upon themselves in ignorant fashion. Monstrous visions of demonic throats clench and release the bile that foams from their deformed mouths, and as their lips deteriorate with quick-release chemical action, we needn’t fathom the discomfort in which they find themselves. And we will not sit in wait- the time is upon us where those who have illustrated all that is delightfully evil will publish their suffering beneath the mighty weight of humiliation.

    We will not give in; we have nothing left to give. We scorn them as we crush leaves with our toes and grind the memory of their sour faces into a sheer powder which will scatter itself across the ocean at the gaseous center of a vengeful earth. Despicable dedications are in order, and tension hangs heavy in the air, right before their smutty noses. We wash our hands of all that once consisted of their dirty little secrets. And as the sweet oil of love’s pure hope courses through our hair like the wind through the trees on a picnic-day, we await their doom with giddy abandon. The parade will pass, and good riddance, but oh what a show they will put on for us in the imaginations of our once-injured, twice-wiser hearts.

Jennifer Burnside