I eat the apathetic for breakfast.
I take a pitchfork to the eye
Of the apathetic.
I pretend it was an accident when
I turn and meet a four hundred degree
Pan against the prone forearm of the
Apathetic, but it
Wasn’t.
I take the apathetic’s mother out
For e coli breakfast.
But this is only after fondling
The apathetic’s mother’s
Bible, in the corpse seat of
Her husband’s hearse.
I am all about the pathetic.
I prefer apes.
Synthetic garments, I stick my
Arms in the holes of now.
A path so worn there are arm-holes in the lining wood.
The would-tic, of the clock, all seconding what
Zeal and zest good
Worker bees have
Got, I sting the apathetic; leave no honey for.
I have about had it with apathy. I have barely
Even been acquainted with telepathy,
But still I know the future’s wrought with
Scenes of me giving it to the apathetic.
And I would, might, even. After this cigarette.
