curling up with Dostoyevsky
has never been a pleasure
because magnanimity and murder
should not coexist in a single person
and guilt is subjective
and ideas are grotesque
and thoughts are to blame
swaggering in their arrogant bravado, tucked
beneath our caps from Zimmerman’s

we German hatters with our secrets
sewn carefully into our coats
we guilty ones, who think ourselves the exception
who see in shades of relativity

relativity, which is neither black, nor white,
nor gray, but rather
whatever we want it to be

how extraordinary are we!

overlooking the waters that teem with mundanities

do you find us frightening
staring wide-eyed at our reflections
on the surface of the water that has swallowed
those who have come before us?

do we frighten you?
tell us, are we extraordinary?

oh no, you have secrets of your own
we can see them in your eyes
you must be just like us, but we were never
extraordinary
we were just patiently waiting
for the verdict to dawdle on over to us
on its two crooked feet
carrying a dented serving tray in a delicate hand
to serve us our punishment

we smile, and accept our meal graciously
we eat with our hands and devour our own flesh

how good it feels

to suffer.