Masquerader

Compassionate illusions,

Favouring those most that reject any conception of blessed abasement.
Abasement, treated with a shot of ill-fated absinthe, accompanying artificial, caffeine regulated purges.

Those who dismiss such watered down objections, thankfully, occupy the mass of the reformatory population.

Plenty of Virgins, lost in the corpses of pure complacency, fit for a ritualised immolation.

The actors know best how to screw circumvent nails into enamoured teenage casualties.

All acceptable losses,

Each year, spermatic fluids slowly brimming over abandoned vodka bottles,
Withering away into indolent stains during the pre-mature abortion.

A few million genetically subordinate idiots,

Too deplorable for insignificance, Untermenschs sentenced to immortality.

Forcefully occupying intoxicated space in the test of abnegation,
Engaged in dauntless self mutilation, severed cocks latched onto an born again Christ,

Spreading the reach of the holy fountain, suffocating displaced niggers in their own fraud.

Exotic and strange, yet dysfunctional, in need of surgical intervention.

Join the line of possessed bitches grasping bloated bellies.

Caressing their Coca Cola wombs, factory owners crowd round and ally with the commodity.

Disposable adolescents, banners of ever returning neutrality, drenched in their own duplicity.

For the simple sake of humanity, the widow should reach for the erect surgical scimitar and cut out the bland monotonous vampire oppressing the womb.

All the president’s men panic at the sight of her,

She has nothing to lose but her humanity,

The unconditional price of true freedom.


Hany Bezem