Hate Speech
by Rexroth Borgia
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This is a disquisition on mercy & the virtues of leaving your body before the
bullet plugs into
your flesh. I guess you can tell by looking whether the hammer is cocked but
what about the phaser—on stun or off, and what setting of annihilate? I pick
up the heavy-handed weapon weary with the years. I pick up the thirty-two
caliber Rimfire Revolver w/ Owlhead Grips. You won’t feel a thing I
promise as your spirit hovers above my badass scene. Oh that havoc instant
between the click of the trigger and hammer’s slam. Oh that carbon
muzzle’s sliver flash one eight seven on another tedious fag. I don’t
even bother to aim at your head since the sound unravels your contained
reality, makes your soul shit its out-of-body pants.
That’s right bitch I kill you like an editor kills a news story that’s bad
for the sponsors, like a project manager scotches a project proposal. This is
me pretending to be disappointed at your lack of artistic outrage & pride in
your work while you’re disappointed that I can’t be disappointed for
real. You know—you need a certain innocence or purity of the heart, and if
you think these naiveties are myths let’s say that you at least need the
delusion that they do exist in order to experience that let-down whose concept
I’m driving at like a pile off the patriot-colored ropes. You’re
disappointed that I can’t be disappointed. I mean you’re really, really
disappointed. That’s sad. I’m just fucking faking it—but that’s
what it means to be cool.
From now on I’m gonna use your byline and the fingerprints from your
severed hand to go on a crime spree and disgrace your bloodline. Your momâ
€™s gonna die by her own arthritic hand.
