There is rage.
There is rage and anger.
Rage and anger like a black horse running to feel its own heart thud
Furious against its massive heaving rib cage
Great plains too constraining
Rebelling against grass too gently swaying
Leagues of green blades not keen on breaking
But this heart wants to beat and break
and spew black blood inside and out.

It wants to leave a trail for the hungry to follow.
Dark blood, clotted with fury
Thick with madness
Dripping black ropes of sticky disgust
Steaming in the cold
And still steaming three days of rain later
Weeks of dragging entrails later,
A whole month of bloody tissues,
And still no knotty white scar tissue after these years.
To seal this furnace of hate
Searing what never wanted anything more than to be fuel,
Constantly craving more craven souls to burn
And when there are none at hand
There is always a cigarette,
The burn of tequila,
The smoke of incense,
The red of sex flushed cheeks.