Acerbic tongues sting this flesh
like a million tiny bee stings;
the barbs embedded in my skin.
I shake and quake with hidden fury,
so very English, so polite,
and rankle, and rile, and bite
at the unforgiving pain of it all.
Disbelief, I tell myself.
It’s utter disbelief.
But the cold hard truth,
these clients of the devil
market and peddle through unsanitary smiles,
who push and prod the badness under my entrails;
they know, they know it’s not.
They seek to conceal
and I want to believe the lesser of two evils:
it all stinks:
I’m beyond acceptance
beyond their views of this world
and all we should stand for.
Instead, I mire in disbelief.
I would have it no other way,
for my universal fury waits to spill over
to those other ninety-nine percent
At least, I hope so.
God, I hope so!