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Andrew Rueter Mar 19
This world is defiled quite
when the wildlife
try all night
to exile light.

A bunch of pompous pawprints
mark cacophonous coffins
where differing dolphins boxed in
fell to a bomb with topspin lobbed in.

The waxy ghosts
make flaxseed toast
while black sheep boast
that they’re lacking most.

The hyenas just laugh
at the beleaguered giraffe
sticking his neck in the path
of a snake oil salesman’s trap.

Now the derelict spiders
are perilous fighters
but carnivorous biters
lit them with lighters.

The alabaster wall
makes ever-after small
and lesser actors tall
through the collapse of all.

Now Cerberus
returns to us
as we burn to dust
for serpent trust.

So the deadened world is dismantled
like someone stepped on an ant hill
with a deafened anvil in a stampede standstill
because killing animals is the jaded man’s will.
MisfitOfSociety Apr 2019
You're the one who killed the sun. You're the one who's killing everyone. If light can not enter, there will be no colour. We're all going to disappear.

Eating the babies.
Plucking the daisies.
Preserving their organs,
Saving them for later.

Artificial clouds are where the sun used to be!
You choked the sky and now you're choking me!

Drowning in every drop of water.
Eaten alive by every human flower.
Devouring every son and daughter.
Sprayed by the punctured capillaries of a sick mother.

Beware the carnivorous fruit. It's killing us softly.

Who knew dying would taste so **** good today.
Every bite I take I am slowly eating myself away.
The only way I feel alive is by eating what will **** me one day.
Who cares about that we're all gonna die someday.

Breathing through the holes in her lungs.
Flowing through her ever thinning blood.  
Stored inside her dissipating muscles.
She's sick, and we're all sick like her.

This is the post-human era.
Cecilia Jones May 2018
dogs pulling at their own chains
not made to restrain but instead
made to constrict the throat
scratching and clawing at their collars
snapping at the passerby who extend a friendly palm
curling into a deep sleep under a meadow’s tree
people who try to speak up are only mocked
Stanley Wilkin Apr 2017
CAT
At night, smothered in darkness, it hunts
Its eyes burning like stars
Slinking through the air, searching
Soundlessly for prey.
“She is such a softee.” Esther sighs
Scooping its favourite food into a bowl.
“My baby. My furry little baby.”
Its claws sink into the wren, ripping
It apart in a cold deliberate frenzy.
Sodden bloodied feathers, slithers of skin
Like red glints in a killer’s darkening eye.
She takes the cat into her arms,
Cradling it and smothering it with kisses.
It purrs, dreaming carnivorous dreams of its owner’s dry flesh.

— The End —