Unpredictable Whims

"Here lies another
running-dog lackey
of the bourgeoisie."

I puke my guts'
contents at every notion
that epitaph might acidicly
etch its judgment
on my tombstone.

With hammer and chisel
I scrape away
social and cultural
conformative manipulations.

I piss into the stagnant
lake where repressed
emotions pool up
exiled by pointing fingers
into politically incorrect hiding.

I rip into shreads
every legal tender -
all forever incapable
of honest nourshment.

No matter where
my ashes might be spread,
they shall never rest
on land or sea:

My dreams weave
never before seen
patterns on air currents'
unpredictable whims.