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My weirding, wilding arrow
Pierces a dozen hearts a day,
But all are immune;
They have renounced passion
For quotidian qualms.
The escalators I ride
Generate static selecticity--
Gather ye charges while ye may--
That's the only thrill life confers on me.
People aren't outgoing these days,
They only go out to go back in,
Home to their spiffy spiral shells
With cuttlefish gates and piranha mindsets;
Everyone, everything is against them
They say,
So let them gnash their whitened teeth
And waggle their fins in paranoid terror . . .
I don't care,
May they wither and perish,
Trapped within their spiral shells.