No Mokşa in the Offing for Albin Balbus.

by C.S. Kraszewski.

 

f-fukfuk
f-fukfuk
f-fukfukfukfukfukfukfukfukdiiiiickkheeeeeeeeeeeadd…
for the sins of contempt and backbiting
committed during fifty four years and seven months
in rumpled khakis and a damp duplex
smelling of cold stew
after his death Albin Balbus
was metempsychosed into a weed whacker
the calloused hands stained yellow with nicotine
of an undocumented landscaper named Jesus López
whaps recalcitrant Albin’s bitter chin
against the sidewalk again and again
near the sandy tracts of palm outside the Union Bank
at Wilshire and Hauser
f-fukfuk
f-fukfuk
f-fukfukfukfukfukfukfukfukdiiiiickkheeeeeeeeeeeadd…
such are the workings of karma
the jury’s still out is this hell
is this purgatory but one thing’s for sure
it’s how it ought to be
but how can one hope for any progress in penitence
when even the tenderest stalk of clover
will chip his poisoned tooth
f-fukfuk
f-fukfuk *kaf kaf*


¡Me cago en la madre que te parió
!

 

 

 

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