and the detonator
blows the bomb
hidden under the
cosy living room,
conversation stops
and only survival
counts, a shock
and naked people
come crying down
the burning stairs,
the house aflame
i hate
superficiality
and the turning
of meaning
into bubbles
floating in mid air,
i want to
use a tooth pick
to make them burst
and drop their weight
of false shimmer
and self-preserving
kindness,
the gentleness
of cockroaches
to go where it
comes from,
to the smilers,
wankers, politicians, bankers,
teachers, priests and lawyers
the blown up
rubble of human kind.
and then, then
i can lean back and smile
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