The innocent pig! Slaughtered in the blood stained room.
The man stands over the corpse and laughs.
Slowly
he peels the skin off the pig,
scolding the dead for pig her small imperfections.
For some game, that needs fresh skin.

The surface of her body and soul, in
a grey factory fit over a mold by a
person who has delt with tens of thousands
of innocent pigs and can only see the skin.  
A conveyor belt takes thousands of animals,
whose only fault was being too heavy, into a drying room.
The pigs not animals but objects now, slaughtered
for entertainment.

The “vegetarian” football player takes
the skin of the poor mama pig and chucks it to his friend.

The misguided soul! Taught tediously to truly think that
the typical time of the gentle piglet far better spent dead
than to live a hellish life, nor will this soul know the
pig is both dead and lived a hellish life.

A hole in the pigs skin and hollow air rushes free.
Punted away into the woods.
Again and again.

The game starts.
The chubby guys line up and smell each others breath,
both sides scream like monsters and charge at each other,
they don’t punch each other, so it’s civilized.
The skinny guys also line up next to each other,
trying to outrun the other guy, yeah
I say guy because society is sexist but moving on,
so they try to outrun each other, one guy in an attempt
to not allow the person to catch the thin layer of pig skin.
The guy running forward tries to get the quarterback (basically
the star of the team the guy with dreamy hair and a nice body
who is either a cool guy or a ****)
to toss him the hollowed out pig skin, so can run and look cool
until another “light” 180 pound guy tackles him to the ground.
The stands, all criminson red, go wild,
Fist bumping, jumping up and down, beer drowning the floor,
at the sight of the guy with the dreamy body
tossing the misshaped ball,
to the guy who just hand the wind
smashed
out of him.

Yes this is all football.

Why bother me when I do not bother you?
Why talk to me when I'm no mood to talk to you?
Why insult me when I'm in the pit of ecstasy?
Why ruin my happy life and make it twisted?

Why play the cards when you cannot even know the aces?
Why throw the ball at me when you know I have the bat?
Why trip me on my way when I know you were right there?
Why ruin my happy life and make it twisted?

Why were you doing this to me when I'm in the state of being fragile?
Why break the glass I was trying to hold?
Why make me feel left out when I already feel like it?
Why?
Why?
Why?

Wait, why am I even writing this if I know you'd still be mocking me on the next day?

On some verdant green hill far away in cute little Palestine of old
Before the Israelis marched in and bunged out the owners
Jesus was hanging about on the cross not feeling too happy
I suppose he was dying for you and me because his Dad was asleep
And he doesn't care if you are a ****** or a giant or a fatty or a fairy!
Yessir! He loves everyone unequivocally provided they praise him endlessly
And receive him in their souls and sing him a load of ****** hymns!

But if you don't receive the LORD and reject the words of the EVIL ONE
He (God) will crush you totally and utterly like a blue-tailed fly
Squatting on a well-used and ill-cleaned second-hand lavatory brush
Without any exception whatsoever even if you are an ugly fat dwarf
As He don't hold with no discrimination nor positive action no way!
So get down on your knees (a shorter journey for amputees with stumps)
And get praying to THE LORD without blinking twice. Yeeha! Amen!

In this place poetry's taboo
It's not like there are rules to say
That writing's bad and poetry's gay
But read some out and see what you
Will get

I use my phone to write
Or my computer when I have it
Footsteps hover, words are writ'
My finger hovers over the light
Of the home button

No one knows I'm unhealthy
My warmth is sponged from alien thought
Mock exposition is a teaching truly taught
As a poet and a writer I'm stealthy
And alone

Or maybe they already know
Maybe they're down there now
Laughing long about him, how
He needs the light of words to grow
Taller

Or maybe they don't place
Poetry and writing as gay
For there are no written rules to say
As no one writes in this dark space
Or at least they think

Could they be proud?
Possibly, but then
They'd have to know first and when
I tell them I'd have to speak aloud
Of all the times I cried as well

My question started with Rives and Op Talk.
Only an idea at first, a spark,
convention that I can not help but mock
because spark rhymes with hark and bark and narc.

Write to make the bones of Shakespeare shiver
and this is awful but who is to say
that a young artist cannot deliver,
cannot produce a lyrical ballet?

It is not important. But it is special
because I cannot speak and speak and speak
and the world is not always so gentle
to warrant an outlook so very bleak.

Not all of the lines will always rhyme like
A sonnet sonnet sonnet sonnet has to.

I've never hated an object more than when I found that little red notebook of hers.

My heart sank to depths no ocean could reach when I saw how stained with life her words were, despite her claims of hollowness and a dead soul.

Her words mocked me. They were still alive.
She wasn't.

There was a small fly who flew in my ear,
All cosy and warm, with nothing to fear.
A harmless existence, though short on sun,
He beat his wings against my ear drum.
''Its in my ear!!'', I cried in shock,
Whilst those stood round began to mock.
ENOUGH of THIS, my new, near neighbour!
(The car key was ******,
in pain I cussed. . .)
But calm was restored with my makeshift sabre :)