poems by nicholas alti

Failure of the Seraphim

Which cross-faded,

glazed-over

guardian angel

is culpable

for this particular mess?

This poor heap,

bipedal pollutant,

human sized hypoxia?

And which of you hash

inhaling halfwits

caused this perfectly

fine gelatinous specimen

to abscond into absentia

pervading wickedness,

hiding deep inside

mobile septic pits

to witness liquidation?

You lot of brainless

cryogenic poltergeists,

you filth abiding defilers.

Who blessed this lad

with an SKS

and aimbot assist,

then created 13

voices in his head

begging like crows

to see inside a carcass? 

And quit letting them kill

themselves en masse.

Do you know the concept

of optics, my toothless

tapeworms, you swarm

of incongruous misanthropists?

Who taught them

the divine method

of mowing down pedestrians

on sidewalks in cars?

Who leaks our secrets,

you scum-sucking dust huffers,

phlegm gargling mongoloids?

These micro-plastic,

parasite infected people

fling themselves before machine

treads and tracks,

confuse brain matter

with fresh pavement,

yet here you lot

gyrate in open maw sadism,

turning each other’s

insides outside

and removing legs

from other winged beings.

You sludgeheaded malignants—

you death spiral of malign ants—

you goddamn idiots.