I want the world to end, to witness
the rending of shell-filled shores
at the hands of a bored planet core
that can stand no more planning.

I yearn to share desire, declare
myself fearless, unlearn discipline
and proper manners, roll
with a risqué girl in the dirt.

I thirst for disaster, for the earth
to mosh with the oceans, to slosh
in its bowl, for nations to broil,
for patriots in every state to bellow
as their stocks and bonds are crushed.

I grow impatient with these chains
weighing taste and choice, enforcing
roles and rules on love, and voices
that hide behind pride and promises
about tomorrow’s lush, prudish feast.

I hate protecting your chaste, delicate
fate from my barbaric appetite, chaining
my lust, sparing your honey-flavored
nights, denying our relation to nature.

I shatter your door, broken chain
clattering in my teeth, daggers in my
bare pores, sweating tears for lonely
years spent saving for long-shot bets.

I trash your precious belongings,
your walls full of medals, and snatch
your dainty hand from the canopy bed,
shredding your ancestors’ patterns.

We burst through the ruins of your walls.
We whoop and yawp, and mark the night:
our rank scent ending self-interest,
the overkill of reasons to hate, a plea
for passion before it’s too late to rage.