Spring



Spring has reached this rancid apple.
The Mother of all Whores is here to mock me again.
The asinine smiles, garish colors, pale flesh with a sickening pink hue.
The horrifying consumption is everywhere.
The pain starts in my eyes and builds into a pressure at the back of my skull.
I am forced to look away.

Rats with wings have traveled thousands of miles to assault my ears.
It's that Bitch again.
The idiotic edge of excitement in their voices.
The children's cruel laughter.
It makes my skin crawl.
The only thing that drowns it out is the screaming in my head.

Puss is oozing from Her womb.
Her sores begin to fester again.
They're all mindlessly feeding on it.
They multiply at a terrifying rate.
The putrid smell of Her sex makes me wretch.
I stand and wonder if there is a way that I could stop breathing.

 

© Jim Foster 3/99