Blunt.

The foreign land of Man
Jewel-laden and untouched
Miles behind me.
...in looking back I recognize
Nothing.

Tripped into fresh gravel
Washed of patriarchal miseries,
Never once had I surmised it so.
And these fools and bastards alike
Judge as they wish,
Spewing unwanted mucus
Into my river.

I am strong though slow-moving,
Deliberate in every cause
The only Bitch who threw me,
Long lost in this Now.

Mind over matter in every case
No judge of this landscape,
Nothing to preside.
Internal organs brace the battering ram of facts;
These are lower hells we roam in
Splintered chips that expose the marrow
To what may yet come by way of affliction.

Woe to those who wait, laboring in false loyalty
Succumbed to the fear of acknowledgment
And an addictive attraction to hell's gate.
Loathsome depth perceptions traipse a burr-filled homeland
Akin to the cutting-fixations of the weak
... and forlorn feeble minded.

There is double-fisted pounding
Wreaking havoc on all doors
Presumptive,  primitive deductions
Lost to intractable distractions
These willing accomplices seek subtle overtures
To bide the inevitable, inscrutable conclusion
That wreckage of this caliber
Will slit the throat of all sanity.