mac-don nulleds

Judy’s donuts in the rain.

across the street from her place is

macdonald’s, slick and gorged with human activity, one day after gameday,

on the Xtian sabbath.

three college males of the species exit,

looking dangerous, scowling,

as is the fashion of most milquetoast privileged whelps

of the late imperium who have been crated off to university,

and who fancy themselves hard, because they have dangling testes i suppose, and also

bc of their steady diet of violent urban music,

piped into the insulated stone ovens of their minds

since adolescence.
bc of the homocidal, goodcleanfun, online and in-line video games.

they are all adolescents and will be forever,

with angry looks like that,

signaling they are ready to throw down and hurt a fool,

after finishing their biscuits with jam.

they all ride sad, soggy little ribbons of longing.

I glare back, an existential challenge through a car window.

the fast food is attenuating the spirits

of these cheerless capitalist strutting dogs, making them flabby,

filling their cells with toxins.

...we all know about the birth rate of westerners,

but is it flagging quite drastically enough,

i want to know?

we men of the west have plenty of sperm

for pornography, and for the will to take, obsess over,

and exchange the nude snapshots of the ladies.

and the ladies of the west are clearly more and more

proudly and beastly like men.

But we can’t seem to reproduce together.

It is entirely deserved.

Robots should not have children and really do not need them.

Perhaps when we stop making war and disease and misery,

and composing operas as we breathe and flatulate,

that sing of how we would never do such things

and indeed are committed to exterminating all the darkies who do,
and also the meddlesome Slavs,

we can have healthy babies again.