Informed again, “This isn’t gold,

it’s iron pyrite.” But isn’t it pretty?

The flies are like a vortex, swirling

above a rotten pile of guts. Isn’t it pretty?

What do you think about the world?

I think it’s about to combust. Isn’t it pretty?

Don’t you like the muck?

Don’t you like the death smelling mud? Isn’t it pretty?

What about a bright waving flag, proud red,

(I’ve heard red symbolizes blood) isn’t it pretty?

All these people at war or starting

wars, all that fuss, isn’t it pretty?

Here you stand at the edge a cliff, like forever.

Is it too much? Isn’t it pretty?

Do you like being nothing to most of

six billion people? Do you like being dust? Isn’t it pretty

Do you see that apple? Doesn’t it look good?

Its tempting, I trust. Isn’t it pretty?

That painting is a masterpiece. Look at what you

can buy with ten thousand bucks. Isn’t it pretty?

How about all these question marks,

do you think this poem sucks? I think it’s pretty.