People call me sick, but I got
a cure of my own. It's in the fear
I suck from venomous minds, it's in
the pulse that bubbles under my prick
as I probe their daughters with deep
indifference. It's in screams that
razor through dead throats,
drained in complex puddles
on the floor of my concrete sarcophagus.
in an already powerful poem, this stanza is so good that it brings the whole thing together.
what a monster of a poem.