A Poem by A.g. Synclair

And he would often ramble on
about those grinning Cheshire cats

back slapping and palm pressing
natty, chatty, laugh a minute bedbugs

bleating broken tomes of conformity
laughing in Uncle Danny’s face

when he begged for a fresh air mask
when he lost days

and thirty-two dollars an hour
to violent lung spasms

and relentless vomiting.

Year after year
bloated pig bitch talk

squealing porcine leprous swine
massive circle jerk

step into my orifice
working class zero.