On a stack of wicked sticks,
you are the dead, red elephant.
Judgment rains down
in jars of purple feathers.
If we cared for you, we’d listen.
But we know the hollowness
of inhuman cracked shells,
so we watch you pass
on your way to the soupy tan drain
that feeds other devils like you.
American Culture, Death, Hate, Judging, March of the Queen Pig, Poems, Poetry, recovery
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