I’m not like you. I can’t turn anything into a poem,
then again, maybe I can,
but I’m not sure that it would end up
being any good at all.
Still, I write and write and write,
tall tales, bunny rails, fables and sad fairies,
and lest not forget the antichrist.
Mother Mary and her damned hand grenades,
they should kill themselves for altering your words.
Any poet, even a pretend one,
knows that you just don’t do that shit.
But hey, we still have plenty of words from you,
the bearer of truth.
You tamed tarantulas, and sat in cafes in Europe,
like a demonic ruler, and you did it to the end,
because you were the real deal, a real writer, a real killer,
a cannibal of the written word, you sprayed the mind
with linguistic machine guns.
A king, a martyr, but you would never wear that badge,
it wouldn’t feel right to you, it would disgrace your honor.
And ten thousand poets still cannot compare to you,
one closing line of yours is like a symphony of poems,
a barricade, an earthquake, shake, drink, shake, drink,
and an opening line,
always worth more than the novice might think.
You awe me, make me wish I had what you had,
but then again, not really,
it’s bad enough having what I have.
Please don't misinterpret what I have to say
But you're a killer.
What I mean is- You've killed me.
Though I may walk, talk,and breathe
I do not smile. I do not laugh. I cry.
Baby, let's not lie. I'm not alive.
You've murdered my soul
Slaughtered my emotions
And left only grief.
Which hangs above my head like a storm cloud
Waiting to rain on my parade every day.
And you're the cause.
I hate you
You've made me smile. You've made me laugh. Then you took it all away.
I hate your guts
He no longer dances with pride. She wallows and sobs all night and day.
Her heart no longer beats.
He no longer cares.
You ripped apart my soul, I no longer wish for someone's arms to be wrapped around my body. And just as you always do, you came back, just like that. Not because you miss me, not cause you love me. But because you are a killer, and killers always come back to their crime scene
In the moonlight, high in the Lemon Gum,
perched under the arching ghostly branches
two eyes of jet peer from a snow-white mask.
Tyto Alba, the Barn Owl, with heart shaped
facial disc, edged with ruff of stiff feathers.
Mottled pearl-grey body feathers above
the moth like plumage, purest white beneath
her slim legs are bare on the lower half,
with small feet that end with deadly talons.
Nocturnal, she roosts in the heat of day.
You will hear her screeching in the cold night
hear the scream before you ever see her.
She can see in the half light of humans
night vision even in total darkness
pinpoints her prey by listening to each sound
the desperate, scuttling little creatures make.
She is a well designed killing machine
with hooked beak, powerful feet and sharp claws.
Her flight feathers have softened edges
to make her deadly flight near soundless
She swoops silently down without warning
seizing victims with her claws, biting deep
into their neck arteries, puncturing
their most precious organs for a quick death.
ive written about meeting him for a second time and where i thought we would stand and how i thought we would change and where i thought we would be in our lives. ive written about knowing each other only in passing and imagined learning about each other again.
its not like that though is it? i need to stop living in the future. i should have thought we are not together now. point blank. i should not expect nor dream or imagine but live in the present. because now we are us. then you were you and i was i. and before we were we.
i am okay with you being away now. and i was okay with not talking to you at all. but i am happy to be the person making you happy whether its miles or minutes away.
the space between us has changed us both. we went from the same page to very different books. even reading at different speeds, we have found that the spaces between words and lines and before paragraphs are universally the same size and that is where we stand for now.
i will gladly listen to your voice through all the in betweens.
You were a friend to the end but
the urge to do it finally closed my
eyes, when I opened them your
life had ebbed away. Just silence
which cleansed the screams away.
I knew what I had to do, I had the
tools ready to do those unspeakable
things to you, but never worry your
not here any more just a cadaver
that will soon be in pieces all over
I use my knife cut you from throat
to your scrotum whoops I just chopped
of your meat and veg fuck it you
don't need them any more. I play with
your ribs blood once warm now cold
in my hands.
I think of a xylophone as I tap the knifes,
dull noises but they sound like musical
notes, I smirk and laugh a bit thinking
of what you would think, as I play
musical notes down on your ribs and
Laugh some more.
I take your heart, it slips on to the floor,
ok mate it slipped from my hands, don't
look like that you don't need it anymore.
I unravel your intestines as they unravel
over the floor, reminds me of spaghetti
just needs meat balls.
I have played enough, parts of you on me,
I tasted part of your liver like Hannibal
lecture, I wish I could tell you this but it
tastes like horse.
I cut patches from your back parchment
a canvas of skin so I draw, blood is my
paint as I draw a skull, then a dove you
are free like the bird, no pain or fear any
I feel no regret, you were a friend, but
I use your blood for hand print pictures
on my wall as I put it on my face on my
chest, I write I am the killer and now I
am complete the circle of life is complete
as I get the knife and move it across then
I paint with my blood now across the walls.
I feel tired, but I am in a red sea of peace
the room once white now red is painted
on the walls, I think of what I have done,
I cant help who I am no one could have
changed me I've done what I have done
I'm at peace now slumped on the floor.