Fall free and slow

Into the furnace.

For every insect body crushed

Or flywing scoffed

As a child,

It qualifies

 

As something unique

To humans.

This torture is bliss

In its certainty.

The torture of them.

 

Turtleshell ashtrays,

Elephant tusk instruments,

Shark fin soup.

 

Refuse the excuse of instinct.

Survival can be accomplised

Without the entertainment

Of slavery.

 

And all the pughead sweating people

With their beamers and

Second hand families.

A dozen dead mice at home

Bloodwet and limp

In a steel noose

Perfect little victims of humanity,

 

As everyone fears the end, unaware

They have induced the hell they imagine

On earth

For everything else.