© Christopher Raine





It’s all lies and when you finally grow sick
from swallowing it all, they will wonder
just what the fuck is wrong with you



You lazy son of a bitch,
you’re costing us money, you fucker!
you don’t want to work do you?
you just want to pucker your mouth
around that bloated state teat
if you had any ambition at all
you’d have money like me
your problems aren’t mine
I won’t pay for you
it’s your own fault
don’t cry to me
you look awful begging
in the street like that
it’s unsightly
it makes me feel uncomfortable
go somewhere else
anywhere I can’t see your filth
out of sight out of mind


I belong
in the sacred spaces
where the world is clean and safe
comfortably white
like virgin snow
air conditioned
privately exclusive
homogeneous paradise
of apple pies
trimmed hedges
picket fences
fat wives with big hair
smiling old ideas
golden handshake
and good people
practicing pamphlets
of love and charity
praise be to God!