Β 

The clacking of the keys make
The fires of my guilt flare.
I should be working,
I should be doing what the man told me to do.
These letters are for the discontent.
These lines are for the numbers,
For the unpaid hours,
For the useless favors,
The wait,
The suffering,
The dimwit succeeding,
The ass-kissing.

I am talking to you, silly boy.
“What do we do about this?”
Really means
“Do your job, moron.”

I,

The proverbial man
In a leather catsuit
And fur-lined cuffs
Whip
Whip
Whippit good.

I suckle the sweaty balls
Of the bureaucrat
Jizz is sustenance

I close my eyes,
Rationalize:
“It’s a delicacy-

Ball sweat

And bullshit.”

Spread your cheeks
Clack-clack-clackety

The ashes of my guilt
Bore the phoenix of my wrath

I shouldn’t be scribbling

My pen is

A middle finger

Up your ass.

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