A dying sun descends upon the horizon
and a faint northern breeze prowls,
fields of ever-greens and poppies whisper
as in the distance a rogue wolf howls

a lone ray of golden light fades and rises
as the setting sun gradually goes down
and from within the caverns underneath
a shadowy creature ascends without a sound

humanoid in stature, coal dust and sweat
stained upon its soft grimy skin,
it's heart thumps and shudders erratically
from inside a chest concave and bone-thin

it feasts upon the crying eyes of children
and the ******* of pregnant mothers -
such does it become a mother itself
drawing upon the blood of its many unfortunate lovers

oh but she must find a surrogate
she must find a healthy womb
for the climate is harsh, her body hath perished
waters due to break, the contractions to start soon -

alas all the people flee her horrific presence
too weak to chase in her sorry state;
and as the pain rips open her putrid flesh
the trail of blood down her leg tells her it's too late

so she squats and pushes, pushes, pushes -
intense white lights blinding her eyes
she births her offspring dead
and collapses to her knees in a fit of anguished cries

caught unawares by the first ray of dawn
surrounded by her babies, the end hath finally come -

an earth-shattering scream piercing the diminishing night
as mother and children burn beneath the rising sun.

Jeff's a downtown Circus Clown,
with his bumbling antics
and rib-tickling pranks
he'll never fail
to turn your frown upside down

[Haha!]

Little do you know
Jeff,
he hates the whole sparkling show -
the way he has to dress
gives him mounting humiliation
and unwanted stress

"Whoops-a-Daisy!"
he frequently falls down
"Whoops-a-Daisy!"
after all, he's just a sideshow Clown
that's depressed
and slowly going crazy

[Crazy?]

Yes -

After yesterday's burlesque,
Jeff went home, poisoned his dog,
and left its frothing on his dining room desk

after a few shots of whiskey,
at dusk,
still in his Clown suit
he teetered on the cusp -

'What does he do now?
Where should he go?"

And concluded he should re-visit the beloved Downtown Circus show.

In the morning,
he'll perform on the stage
hide seven tubs of explosive up his sleeve,
and in front of hundreds of laughing spectators
he'll let his whole body blow,
and the best bit of it is -

Nobody will even know.

Make your way on over
don't need to bring nothin'
apart from your best clothes -
I'll work away your worries,
breathe away your woes.

It wasn't what I confessed,
god looks upon me
but I'm far from being blessed.
My heads in a spin,
fingers jiving and jigging
my mind focusing on your soft chin.

Blue eyed monster,
black hair chasing down your back
body to die for,
my heart beating
like a race-horse on a track.

You're chemical treasure
You're tainted but ****,
I'm a Lykos for pleasure
show us your prize
and I'll show you mine.

Blood-red lips, sleek, unmissable
soft pale skin
so smooth, so kissable.

Make your way on over -
I'm a Lykos for pleasure,
a predator for treasure,
and a hungry wolf in full fledged measure.

Drunkards crawl through pools of *****
bruises and mascara smother stripper's eyes,
beneath stale air and drunken haze
ulterior motives and false perceptions are easily disguised

stained beauty slowly curdles
teenage morals gradually decompose, as
****** frustration ignites, burning beneath disco lights
lust blooming like sordid petals of a rose

boys eye girls bra-less and raving
vying for a flash of flesh or ******,
anticipations defy logical explanations
as juvenile love starts to tickle

alcohol brews caustic feelings
lacklustre defences and warped attractions,
some look for relationships and lifetime lovers
whilst others seek mere distractions

escaping the reality of a life
gouging its gnarled nails upon our skin,
the fact that staying weak is easier
tempting us to give in to deviled sin

for what's the point in staying strong,
only to be dragged along upon the floor?

What's the point in living,
when you just don't know what you're living for?

You've taken
                                       what's not yours -
           consuming and sticking to them
                           like germ-ridden spores

                                   You filthy *******
                                      hope you choke on
                       those sly tongues that lilt,
                                   I hope you overdose
                       on your distant inner guilt

                                                         because
                               there was a thousand
                          things you could've done
                           but none could compare
                                                     to this one

Innocent objects,
going about
without care, living normality
obliviously unaware

                           That you were stalking,
                                                       watching,
                          just pawns in your game
                 a living key to your delusions
                                     and personal gain.

                               Where are they now?        
                                   What do you want?

                                                          ­Politics,
                              religion, exclamations
                                     reams upon reams
                    of question marked swirls -
                                         this is human life
                                    you're playing with!

                                                 So give it up,

"Bring Back Our Girls!"

His head lies in the sunlight
grease-paint and mascara smeared in flecks,
passed-out upon room 5's windowsill
whilst all around his friends frolic and have ***

he stinks of Michael Kors'
with his designer suit and dip-dyed hair,
he thinks the girls dig a guy in a suit
but sadly they simply don't care

for class is overrated, manners belated,
he went out looking for a bit
instead he threw up on the karaoke machine
and now he just looks like a ***

disco lights schizophrenic, blinding,
covering his face burning with embarrassment
simple childish fun curdled sour
stumbling through a crowd hurling harassment

passing by drug abusers and rich fixers
taxi cabs beep, run-down and stained,
prostitutes sell in ***** horns and bunny suits -
his need's dire but his wallet's drained

for money can buy pretty much anything
but with one tiny exception -

no amount of printed-paper notes
can buy a life of true, honest, perfection.

He sneaks in the night,
and grinds upon the gristle of your bones -
in a cloak woven from the finest skin,
from the chimney he descends and creeps through your homes.

For old Saint Nick
is the propaganda before the fear,
his legend created to cover
the sick evil that manifests itself into cheer.

What's that thumping on your roof?
Trust me, it ain't no reindeer or adorable little elf -
before you can scream the world's black before you;
just another stolen skull upon his shelf.

For Krampus is one nasty wicked little devil -
so lock your windows, barricade the doors;
with a magic key he enters
his shadow bleeding blood into the snow-dusted floors...

lice jittering in the fur beneath his mangey pits,
and eldritch horns jutting from his head
he's a carnivore of the festive spirit;
his hunger and blood-thirst never truly fed.

And upon the Eve of this coming Christmas
he's got an exciting new trick -

for once he's gonna spare all the naughty children,

and instead devour our beloved old Saint Nick...