Take me to the third planet and cut my ankles, would you.
I want to bleed all over September christenings and listen to the wails of the choirboys, singing about the death and decay of this sore in the world we call humanity.
String me by my neck, if you will, and let gravity do its duty.
Watch it take pleasure in making reddish emotion drain through me.
It’s a messy, sticky thing, this human business.
It’s a monkey business, a three-line joke that leaves me laughing.