The Weaklings

Grasping at straws,

panicking now with the need

to float away, or start a fire.


One look confuses with

all the bewilderment

a fool can muster.


They are so near to heaven,

these lost souls that

brush and glide against each other,

’til so often friction gets their better

and they burst into flame.


Craving one more spin

on the vibrating love-o-matic,

prodding inanely at each other;

not knowing,

not caring,

rarely even curious.


Slaking savage thirsts

and imbibing each other’s


until we are all humiliated.

No longer even human.


I for one,

no longer even think

about sinking,

or swimming,

or burning;

for I am building a boat.


I hope you all die,

choking on each other’s blood.


HG – 2000-2005

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