The Enemy of My Enemy and other poems by Scott Thomas Outler




The same vitriol

I hear you spew

against Moses, Jesus and Mohammad

in your temper tantrum

against religion and the church,

I have

on the tip

of my tongue

to spit against the State

and all the mindless minions

that serve the system

which has murdered

hundreds of millions of citizens

across this planet

in the past century or so


I’d rather have

a half enlightened Gnostic

in my foxhole

than a Godless

automaton zombie sheep

doing all it can

to march in lockstep

like a lemming

to reach the teat of Satan

where it will

suck on false fascist idols

until the cows come home

and the cock crows thrice





Anything that puts a dagger

into the ribs

of political correctness

deserves a medal of honor…

so strip that soldier

of their fascist attire

and give the baubles and trinkets

to someone who truly deserves

to be all decked out in colors


Anything that pisses on the grave

of a sold-out traitor

who sucked the cock

of Satan’s state sponsored system

deserves a cup

that never runs dry…

so pour out the ashes

from that false idol’s urn

and fill it up with red wine

to pass around the cemetery





Your irony

is not a sign

of intelligence,

just apathy

and ennui.


Your open wounds

flashed with pride

don’t symbolize courage,

just a penchant

for fucking up.


Your sad life story

is not unique,

just copycat

and dull.


Your razorblade

has been done before,

both walked

and used on skin.


Your lying eyes

are nothing new,

they’ve been flashing

since the garden.


Your pillow cries

alone at night

are kiddy pool –

it’s time to face

the deep end.





Down from the Heavens

come the angels without mercy

with a kill order from the High God

spitting venom off of pin tops

to the vein of cancer’s dehydration

Get fresh illusions with the vice brigade

singing chorus twice on Sundays

for a little forgiveness revival ceremony

Practice what you preach

Answers always come too late

in the shallow pew congregation

The tadpole serpents

flick their tongues

a little wet spot on her red dress

a little bloodstain on the carpet

White fluffy daydreams with cotton silhouette

rage against the boundaries of a ceasefire

Suck on the nest egg until collapse

Shit on the hand that feeds you

Bite the jugular of divine concentration

until the slipstream slides down a waterfall

Pristine damage inoculation symphony

retarding the species one gene at a time

Mercury poisoning the principal flagship

Wave it all around in bullet riddled chaos

The winds are pouring across the field

Reap what you sow in the belly of fear

Crashing into the mountain peak

Feels so good until it breaks apart

Lots of emotion without a quarantine

Lots of backstabbing wasp warriors

sign off on the delivery machinations

Crisscrossing the river back to safety

broken, broken, broken, all has failed





Scott Thomas Scott Thomas Outlar spends the hours flowing and fluxing with the tide of the Tao River while laughing at and/or weeping over the existential nature of life. His words have appeared recently in venues such as Dissident Voice, Dead Snakes, ex-ex-lit, Siren, Section 8, and Tuck Magazine. His debut chapbook “A Black Wave Cometh” will be released in April through Dink Press. More of Scott’s writing can be read at

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