an angry poem for the hypocrite

You hypocrite, you liar, you bestowed little caterpillar crawling on the skin of a shaved onion.

You really have such putrid breath did I ever mention that and your hair looks like the straw of a broom that finished bathing a few pavements in a oil covered junkyard, potholed road.

You're an empty airliner without an airport to call home.

You're the darkened wires in an out of date, burned out light bulb that has lost it's lamp. You're an idea without an author and a page without a pen.

Pick up the reading glasses where you dropped them behind the couch and put them in your back pocket because you already know what I'm going to say without reading further.

You are a slumdog millionaire and a hound of hell. Your bark echoes down the alleyways too dingy for the company of the streetcar trollops. Your voice is the sound of a frozen sunflower.

May ships left alone in empty docks call out your name, their bells ringing like the sound of the echoes in your empty head.