Liam Hermann
Wrath
Wrath was spawned when
astral trajectories and cathedralic embarkments collided.
It is burning plasma and impossibly frigid.
Long, piercing dendrites, 7 billion and growing,
parasitic Gemini umbilicism.

Wrath shakes quietly like a sad catatonic soldier,
it’s more potent than you can know.
Blowing off sulfurous steam, you expect a cooldown,
but sparks of Wrath can blow into your woodpile
and kindle it.

Wrath is your brain for fuck yous and go dies.
It’s the tumorous growth that tells me to spew wicked, false sewage,
call you an abortion-surviving shit.  It semen congeal stab whore
kiss you laugh punch bile cocksucking
maggot scum in your worn-out vagina.

Wrath is a gigantic zombie leech
that rises up, sucks men dry,
puts itself to sleep in a pile of its own excrement.
It lays its seeds in its hosts and prey,
so that more Wrath will be born and grow.

Wrath is a blind idiot god
that forcibly changes apostates into high priests
with a spray of unholy water.
Its destructive, chaotic will shall be done
by those who cannot fight its nigh-omnipotence.

Wrath is me trying to speak and spraying blood
on your warm face.  Wrath is rabies and we are dogs.
Our souls are kindred, but Wrath can be a fistula that
ruptures our guts like sausage casing.
Keep the bees in a jar, lest they propagate and kill us all.

Wrath is an organ in everyone; it’s an appendix.
I hope you and I remove it before the burst.