Do you think you are a good person,
you demand of
the liberated me
your scream
howling
between the porous legs of present and past
as you carp about terror, truth and stunted lives
as you try to saw through my last nerve
as skinny, slant eyed
whiskey whores
parade through purple haze
gorge on your coffers
tramp through your lies
nightmare channel
briefly appeasing you
with their sweet meats
and clotted cream
as the clock strikes past twelve
as you curse in bold print
drippingly swear
that you
are a good person.
