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They call him the King of Horror
He’s a walking Armageddon
A nightmare given flesh
Made to rot and decay
Just like everything else
I call him by the barcode
Written right on his brain

With an empty stomach and heart
There is no hope from the start
That’s how he was designed
To cut our world down to size

From the penthouse fat cats
To the downtown thugs
No man or child is safe
From his marrow touch
And his eyes of hate
They see no happiness
No truth or dare
Just bugs and cocktails
Waiting to be spilled
Till every drop is gone
He won’t rest in peace
Until life is dead

With an empty stomach and heart
There is no love from the start
That’s how he was designed
(God help our wretched souls)
To tear the world down to size
He’s cut the world down to size

Is he the King of Horror?
Can he crawl out of the grave
And into our dreams?
Is there no stopping him?
Will our minds be wiped clean
So we can suffer no longer?
Will we not even remember
How Nihilson came to be?
What does it matter?
We are who we will be
From one monster to another
It’s all a bad dream
That’s all we can dream
To be heard and never seen
That’s who we will be
If we don’t wake up and see
This poem is a tribute to "King of Horror", one of the songs in Splendid Fred Records' album "This Changes Everything (11 Songs About Climate Change)". When listening to the song, I imagined the titular King of Horror being a severely disfigured assassin, almost similar to Marvel's Deadpool but far more sinister. Also, the name "Nihilson" is a portmanteau of the name "Nilson" and the word "nihil". I originally wrote this back on February 5th 2018.
Prossnip42 Mar 2020
There's a shape in the shadows
There's a chill in the air
But he won't let you get rattled
You won't know that he's there
There's no way to do battle, when you're caught unaware
One blink and he'll be gone and you'll be dead in your chair

Or was he even there
Can you even prepare
For a reckoning, a second into catching the glare
Of a barrel when the bullet's already in the air
Or the chemicals already have your vision impaired

As you try to place the face of that sommelier
When you're about to win the race but find the breaks aren't there
On a knife's edge, placed between the fumes and the flare
The last breath...with a glove in your hair

He's an artist with a knife
He will catch you by surprise
There's no faster a demise
Were you happy with your life
Cause you didn't have the time left for it to flash before your eyes

The sound of a coin on the ground
And not a shred of evidence will ever be found
Your death will be swift, without any sound
Ain't it tragic how a man can accidentally drown?
A poem about a monster, making his living like a monster
annh Nov 2019
Susie Saviour is a Bond girl
From Weymouth-Turf-On-Sea
A swish, a sway; a fist, a fray
And home in time for tea.

She scuba dives for pleasure
Downdashious to her core,
But only when the flags are out
And never far from shore.

A beauty queen, a lisome lass,
A femme fatale, a flirt;
Serves martinis with a swizzle stick
This sweet assassin in a skirt.
Firstly, apologies to all Dorsetians; secondly, Weymouth-Turf-On-Sea is a figment of my poor imagination; thirdly, you will find 'downdashious' in the D section of the Wiki glossary of Dorset dialect words. It means audacious. And BTW 'dumbledore' means bumblebee. How about that?!

'To be a Bond girl you need courage, charm, determination and feistiness.'
Olga Kurylenko
Peyton L Aug 2019
My lovers have always been like cough drops.
Sweet, soothing, addicting even,
but never enough to solve the problem.
Never enough to clear my damaged throat.

And I don't know if you'll be any different.
From how we started,
it seemed as if I was in for another dose of
acesulfame potassium,
but there's something about you.
That makes me think
you'll be more like a cigarette.

Instead of sweet,
you'll be bitter.
But you'll make me woozy at my first drag,
and mellowed out for the duration.
You'll make my otherwise shaky personality
But like rain in the summer,
you won't last long.
At least, I don't think.

There's also something about you
that makes me
want to tell you everything.
You're like a priest,
and I'm in the confessional.
I wouldn't confess my sins to anyone,
but you...
I just might.

What is it about you, huh?
Is it your boyish charm?
Your people skills?
Or is it something more menacing?
Maybe you're a psychopath
who's been studying me and my tells
to see how to get me to open up.
Maybe you're a serial killer and I'm your next victim.

I won't lie, I don't trust easy.
Maybe you're a perfectly good person,
and I just fell in love abnormally quick.
Maybe you really do love me.
But there's something about you I don't trust.

Something about you
that makes me want to run
and never look back.
You have something of a record when it comes
to girls' hearts,
and I'm not so naive as to forget
what you did to Maru,
but I can see
why they forgot to warn me
about you.

It's almost as if
you cleaned their mind
of all the atrocities you've committed.
But I won't be so easily tricked.

I won't forget what you've done.
I won't lie and say I don't love you,
because I do.
I love you with my whole heart.
But, I will not let my guard down.
I will not let you so close
you will never break my heart.
'Cause baby, you ain't no cough drop.
You're a black mamba
in the chicken's coop.

But darling, I'm the farmer
with the gun to your slick little head,
finger on the trigger,
ready to fire.

Do don't underestimate me.
Don'y you dare underestimate me.
'Cause I'm a **** assassin with my aim.
And I'm not gonna miss.
So tread lightly, little snake.
Don't bite my chickens
or swallow the eggs
and I won't shoot.
Inspired by the bag of cough drops on my desk and an old lover I no longer speak to.
Hereshecomes Jul 2019
Grant it
You stepped in
through a crack
like an assassin.

And yes
your prying eye
did establish how far
you could reach

Little did you know
that the lady you made out of me
can see in the dark.


Red flags you waved before me
for your colourful entertainment
Pillars for my temple
And swords for my angels.
Ray Dunn Apr 2019
To be an assassin dispersing
into the crowded city street,
to blend into the masses
with a finger on the trigger—
simply because it’s your first instinct
I’m so immature I giggled at the fact that assassin has the word “***” in it, TWICE!!
Mya Apr 2019
Hidden in the shadows
Weapons at his side
He has her sent
And he follows
Silently he stalks
He moves swiftly across the floor
Without a flinch
There's a knife through her heart
she tries to look at him before her last breath
though there is no one in the room anymore
I got the inspiration for this poem from a movie I watched
Mya Mar 2019
Hidden in the shadows
Weapons at his side
He has her sent
And he follows
Silently he stalks
He moves swiftly across the floor
Without a flinch
There's a knife through her heart
I got the inspiration for this poem from a move I watched
Aa Harvey Oct 2018

A hooded figure watches over the sleeping.
Peacefully, suddenly colder, soon to be weeping;
A body of a thousand slumbers.
Tonight will be its final number,
For without sound or any sign of remorse,
Death has come, and in due course,
The time will come when the sleeper breathes no more.
The clock has not yet struck midnight.
Witches are waking their feral beasts and al-
So, their frogs are leaping,
And all the while he lays there sleeping.

His silk pajamas and knitted blankets.
The bottle he was given, he slowly drank it,
And now through snores, he hears no more,
The open door downstairs where footsteps call.
If only he could hear them passing,
Maybe he could somehow foresee the morning happenings,
But this is not a happy ending tale.
This is a time for woe; a rose upon a grail.
A dearly departed letter of discontent.
A scarlet rose has been placed upon his deathbed.

As the clock strikes, a metaphorical piercing knife.
The depths to which some men will delve,
And all in aid of a silent war.
A change in fortune for another who did not fall.
For this assassin was bought and he sold,
His service to another victim old.
For as he stood above his prey,
A bag of monies did come his way,
And with no word, a swift hand grabbed,
The jewels inside the felt covered bag.
All that needed to be said:
“It is not yet my time; send your services back instead.”

Now riches bulged from spoils of war.
The hooded figure waited until he could wait no more,
And on the chime of the seventh call,
The end appeared, a discovery made, the snorer was no more.
Only silence, through such violence.
The hooded figure was never seen again,
But the world had swiftly and suddenly changed.
His services would surely once again be called upon,
Lest his deeds become ineffectual and his tale too soon forgotten.

(C)2018 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
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