I am the Diamond Marble. I am a cross between the bull’s eye atop a top and the screw that caps the fastest fan you can imagine. Each time I wave my hand, lettuce flowers at my fingertips. I swap fake dolls for pearl flakes. Fake pearl flakes for dope dolls. I man every highway road in your land, every highway restaurant, every toddy palm plantation, and every fuel station next to those highway restaurants. The Internet you worship is my property. I am the Patron Saint of your Party. I eat rabid dogs. I feed poisoned meat to your pet. The way I squat-shit on a Western toilet, I sit above your government. It was me who painted a toothbrush moustache on the national gallery portrait of your favourite General. Listen up, Sonny! Unbeknownst to you, your mother was one of my 18,000 fretwork footrests I clubbed with sex. When you were a crawler, sick with anal scabies you contracted from bathing at my charity well, your mom had to rush you to my charity clinic, in one of my charity vehicles. For the sake of your skin hygiene, my sanction wiped out your filthy tribe. You grew up half-baked, having been thrown into potboilers in the shambolic public library I donated. I caused every episode of depression you drowned in. I bottled every moonshine you drank.
I am not for profit.
They call me the Virtuous Circle – I spin so fast, history can’t catch up, let alone blackmail me for a rest.