every act of contempt is

We have placed ourselves, unwittingly,
in front of the Great Retching,
but we can barely perceive the smell
as we stand blindfold before it.

There is no dirge, other than that
persistant hum, a screech at times,
a lament always, felt only
at intervals, in the petty war declaration
that every act of contempt is.

The fatal fulcrum of fate
moves us inexorably.
It is impossible to stop now, to not ask
for more.

The Whore before the Nothingness
seeks consolation in another disposable
Eastern fad.