Hatred

I wish that I had a dart of steep venom, something pure,
A small thing pulsing with agony,
The whole of hell in the core of a bullet
That I could thwap into your heel;
Then a pin-prick might cost you a holocaust of sorrows,
Then your body, the whole of your corpulent body,
Rolling hills of gelatinous mush mounding one on another
Like a pile of compost or a heap of shit,
Like corps of corpses steeped hill-high on funeral pyres,
Might catch and flame, roar to the sky
Like a field of raging sparks;
With a wand I would fill you with pain limitless, too much
To brood, writhe, wheeze, and cut the soggy roasting
Into briny bits, and stomp them through the globe.