Slice me and dice me but please dont add salt!
Murdering is an art!
It takes caution, skill, and smarts.
It also takes a weapon.
In the case of murdering, you can say...
that technically a human murders every day,
may not be of it's own kind, but...
we kill other living things every single day.
Do we see them?
No, maybe, possibly, I don't know. Do you?
Jack the Ripper!
I murder prostitutes,
women who defile their bodies by
showing off their breasts and bellies...
and innards...to lost men.
I don't know why I kill this specific kind of pray...
but I do...And I know its fun teasing the media.
Maybe I should start murdering the men too...
Sneak into the room while their...going about their business...
...Never mind...That's a nasty thought...
Murderers care about that kind of thing too, you know?
They do not cry.
They don't have time to cry.
They do not scream.
They do not have time to scream.
I slice their throat first,
which means I win from the start.
Then...Save for my third,
I drag their innards around their bodies
like...fuzzy neck boas.
I take no souvenirs...It would cause a havoc...
A havoc I prefer not to have...
© 2012 Melody
He stands in a makeshift kitchen,
by the roadside every morning,
Determined, unshaven and shirtless,
dagger in hand,
a tray of onions in front of him.
Paid by numbers by the hour,
hired by someone a wee bit less poor than him,
His knife hitting the chopping board
and adding a beat to the march of progress .
A rhythm to the stride of a herd of people,
dancing towards so-called newer heights,
Driven by the expertise of an elite handful
who make the rules, systematically deciding
who peels the onions and who cleans the loo.
Waiting to be peeled and chopped,
waiting to be counted and weighed,
Peel, peel, chop, chop!
Waiting to be popped into a tray
lost in the crowd of more chopped existences.
Not my real tears, he assures himself,
Thankful to be able to cry
behind the garb of onion-tears,
Having lost the freedom
to even own his pain.
But why does he need to weep at all?
we ask, puzzled,
Aren’t we climbing the grid of development?
Haven’t we honoured him enough?
By bestowing on him,
the coveted title of The Onion Chopper?
Little Bow Peep
Told everyone she had lost her
And didnt know where to
She had slaughtered them
All of them for
And sold the wool to china,
Told no one of the secret
She so secretly did keep,
To why the sheep had gone missing
Killing any and all from finding.
She was a
And had a fetish obsession of the sheep,
She was meant to looking after.
Peep Merrily nailed each and
Everyone of them,
More like half a dozen times,
Sometimes cuddled up with
Her dick still inside them.
So when eating
With chips, if tasting a little salty,
Then Little Bow Peep
Had slept with that sheep
And ejaculated inside them.