By Ty H Phillips
Emotional waves come crashing into the beach of my mind.
They heedlessly pull bits of me back into the surf. In and out, in and out. It’s midnight here and the experience is unseen but heavily felt and heard.
Dark giants crashing into me, their noise deafening. My fingers sink into the sand looking for purchase. I am pulled further from shore. These miles of sand offer no stability.
I watch as children cry, weeping for a sense of security, comfort, love, anything that will offer even a moment’s respite from the suffering they were born in to.
Eyes shining like wet pearls, lips quivering and a mind uncertain stays reeling in the chaos of uncaring parents.
Men point guns at each other and let loose death.
The sickening smell of feces and blood pools around them.
They are consumed in mortality and decay and yet we send more. As eyes meet over stretches of killing fields, the common humanity goes unnoticed.
We must kill them, we must defeat them.
Women, so much like cattle to be sold. Soulless, lifeless, just an object to be worked to ragged nothingness. We conquer and mutilate to gratify our sense of egoic pride.
Here is an offering of acid baths and honor killings. This world we have created is here to hate you, to own you, to break you. Bring me the woman child to eviscerate. These sexual organs are not needed.
Grey carpet surrounds me, holds me close.
Hugs from a dusty companion as I melt into the mindless bliss of consumerism.
Buy me, wear me, use me, hold me, need me. You are nothing without me.
Allow me to teach you how to hate yourself. Too fat, too thin, too unlike me.
Kiss yourself with this razor and end your torment young mind.
Salvation and torment—a package deal. I died for the sins I made for you.
Kneel, feel guilty, feel remorse as you are but filthy rags before me, yet, I did it all for you.
Jesus loves the little children, 25,000 deaths a day tell me so. Behead those who would insult muhammad for we are the religion of peace.
All things were created by him and nothing was made that was not made by him; welcome to eternal torment, the devil made me do it.
Guns and bacon and Obama is to blame.
Niggardly narcissism, who thinks this koon belongs in the white house?
More guns, shooter safety drills children, duck and cover, hide behind closed doors, but we need more guns. Hear the crack of that slide on my 45, that sounds like freedom, bang you’re dead.
India melts, mass ecocide prevails, mass extinction washes up on shores and field alike, but the deflated football is front and center.
Look away young eyes, look away. GMO organic war. Feed the world for $10 a salad at whole foods, science is satan.
My tarot says I am too afraid to face reality so pretty playing cards make me feel better.
Look away young eyes, look away.
Editor Dana Gornall