Rants from the End of the World

It’s called a nightmare, a spare tire not there
An outcast fastly driven to despair,
With no room at the Inn, 
there is no margin for scamp or delinquent democracy.
I would hold your hand but it’s branded by fire, 
As if you might think you know the correct answer,
To solve centuries of power over.

And I am a love-lorn slut gestating in hysteria, 
That’s a word rooted in Divine Feminine 
And yet they removed my womb ever since.
So your brand compounds my inability to sustain, 
Face smashed fierce against the glass ceiling, 
We all seem to forget. cis is never capitalized, 
While Trans in comparison is made glorious. 
I have a record; I am on file for abuse and screaming,
I will never comply with the obsolete paradigm, 
That we all lie down in the binary psychosis of the capital. 
Your genitals don’t define you. 
But I certainly grew up forced to vaginal definition.
So I claimed it. And it is definitely not cis. 
If anyone ever asked me.

My job pays me half my worth and I worthlessly acquiesce, 
and even smile, unless you try to one up 
and pluck something sacred from my pile
I spit and pray, fire and bane work, 
my job is no less than my life,
I am no worker, I live by rule of tribe
A primal equation not a political salvation
And I dance to my dead lovers on all souls day.
I am well rounded when I polarize pretentious
Yet I quirk with the best, and fuck the rest
Fucking is a metaphor, meta for my own survival
I would like more fruit in my basket, 
but the basket is not for sale.
And I find the fruit waxed and hard to chew,
I prefer bruised and over sweetened.

It seems that everyone is buckling down 
For the dead man’s apocalypse
When they should just dance for the revolution 
Rather than succumb to cannibalism
I mean to be awake, and I mean to pray to chaos, 
The odd chance we actually survive the end of Industry.
Seriously it is sad how many hold themselves, 
So righteous for the cause. 
Stake holders, gonna change the world, 
Are we not stardust?
Dark matter implores us to engage a new theory.
You are a dinosaur already, 
If we all walked out of the death rattle parade,
We could buy ourselves a thousand more years 
On this ride, we call earth, in outer space.

Denise Cumor