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The anarchist is weeping.

The toy store is
sleeping;

There is a madman full of dirty
treats,

Wandering the trees,

Pondering the
streets

In search of the existence

Of actually 

Nothing.

The anarchist is weeping.

There is a quivering mass
of psychotic energy
sleeping on the
street.

I broke myself off a piece.

It trembles in my pocket
like a brick of angry
Jell-o.

It stains my fingers yellow.

It told me to say hello.

The anarchist is weeping,
but it's okay
because

Emotions are allowed.

So says the self-appointed

Mouthpiece of the clouds.

The anarchist is weeping.

He is hemorrhaging

Pepper spray,

And tears.

My face is a bandana!

Cover your eyes with sackcloth!

Behold the fury of the mirror!

The anarchist is weeping.

Not for politics, or

Art,

Not for a broken

Heart,

Or because he has to

Wait,

But rather, the anarchist is

Weeping, because he knows

He will always be an object 

Of everlasting 

Hate;

For better or worse,

Not everyone is smart

Enough to be a

State.





May 2026