Pandemonium and Supercar Racing to the Nth Power

Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem

Jeremiah 17:9

The terrorist inside the chambers red

With blood, those pulsing ones, to right and left

Is chief among your evils.  Poison lead

Is not as wicked.  Terror with the heft

Of Hell’s foundations occupies your heart,

The enemy encampment sucking hard

Like iron leeches, thug-like Bonaparte

You cannot banish to an island, shard

Of arsenic turned pointed like a spear.

A transplant of the organ leaving out

That demon is absurd.  Hates adhere

To it.  Their hooks pierce inward and then sprout.

  The F1 screaming troop of steered desires

    You cannot drive because of wobbling tires.