The Best, Of All Possible
Will de Kypia
En enfer, le bois tordu fait le feu droit
Listen, and you will hear the
rip of limb from sundered spirit.
Look, and you will see the
bleeding stumps of the losers.
Divas decree to mudhens
…Only we wear red on Friday
…or we'll cyberslut your sorry butts.
They obey the Slender Man's commands. When he
says You must stab your very best friend, they do.
And every high school has a final-rest room
to accommodate its hanging self-shot corpses.
Lost boys fall into trench-coat lockstep
behind the biggest bully. Quick to dance,
bored to kill, unafraid to die tomorrow.
Nihilistic avengers inflicting bloody retribution
for nothing at all, they bestride weaklings, fling
believers into a fiery maw, revel in the screams.
Do not blame the children for being what they
are. Immanuel Kant said nothing straight could
be made from the crooked timber of humankind.
You and I share the rootstock that produced these
monsters. A common lineage drips its poison through
our heartwood. Cowards like us, too pusillanimous to
act on the demoniac urges we secretly share, should
both envy and admire such fearless young savages.
What then, have I children of my own?
No, friend, none of that for me.
I live alone in a remote and barren land.
There I cultivate a garden of bitter herbs,
grubbing a lowly life far from their kind.
And mine.
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