A man sits back in a brown leather chair
and contemplates his own monstrosity,
allows himself
to remember
that he is sitting upon remains,
that his throne is made of death,
that it is so soft
he can’t rise from it;
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weeping for his monstrous
comfort, he stays seated,
claiming that it’s better
that a man like him
is the one
warming the seat
than some more monstrous bastard,
wouldn’t you agree?
