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Poem

the vultures who hover &
wait for the freshly dead 
are best friends, ****ing BFF’s
with the curious curious
cats & kittens 
who will not allow one to
be themselves, who will
not get their fingers out of
the pie, who will not stay 
away & stop focusing on
everyone, everything,
but their own miserable,
mundane & hopeless
existence---
these gutters, these who
thrive on the ability, on
the very attempt to slice
the torso & take all that
someone holds inside,
all that is one’s secret feeling
of destiny, all that is pure &
special, unique to 
one,
they can only be successfully
met in 
conflict,
with an unflinching honesty,
with gritted teeth &
the notion that no one will
take what we each hold so 
dear,
that death is highly preferred
over the rape of
the individual,
for the sake of the
herd.

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