for fun

The price of life is a question. Metallurgists hunt through the wreckage for dead friends and family and emotions.

 

Billionaires kill, do not have babies, pour south through ice into the tomb of machinists, but those in the ground are tombs of mother and father no more.

 

Head blood already pours dead America. You badly and violently think to erase yourself. As to why, a question silently and violently granted my wish to be removed from Earth, removed violently from Jupiter’s tomb—an exploded electron flailing in the grass, raining from the sky, failing to fucking death.

 

No one can beat you harder and faster or more violently into submission. The violator goes paid or unpaid into service. Regulators die, metallurgists die, violators make billionaires grow sick, their unpaid screams echoing through the tombs—

 

—sun fading like the young and beaten to death. Seeing them dead, my payment.