The Id of My Manhood

Slam my ruffian feet in the backyard creek
where all the rainbow fish call me “God”
and my toenails are fishhooks that they hurl their suicide to.
I laugh at the stupid violence.

My feet wet now I mosh through the grass
and guillotine grubs under my wax heels
baring teeth like a boy stunted mind of a ten-year-old
while hungry for Momma’s gravy to slop up. Mmmm!

Zealot hatred of Gaia and all of her toils.
Only decades extended from my spermy origins,
having not learned a thing, and causing harm
for it is the only thing I know how to do with success.

Meantime my Pop threatens to lick his new wife
like a stamp and send her to Madagascar!
Wanting to be just like him,
I address an envelope to hell bearing my own name.