Martin D. Gibbs

Creep Feed

I am a crusty curmudgeon, a cranky,
cantankerous old fool; dead and bitter.
Short on temper, long on drivel and drool—
a Creep.

Feed me your lies, stoke my bitterness…
with collard greens and canker sores,
cram into my face your hatred, your vehemence—
feed me.

I am past zero, divided by nothing, emptied;
curled upon a couch floating in sewage,
legs expanded, bloated, flesh melting painfully—
a Creep.

There is nothing wanted more, hated more
than warm bowls of acrimony, battery acid,
served with cold cream of revenge and anger—
feed me.

I am a disaster, desolation and death,
destroyed, depleted, drunk on pain;
Pain of knowing others have pleasure—
a Creep.

Feed my gluttonous, distended stomach
Imbibe of me; deep within, without—render and pull,
I’m a skulking, creeping, crippled heathen, hater of fun—
feed me.

Creep.

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