A veracious man was due
though a lunacy bade his sneer
as he'd shoot to kill
that shocked his world too
only tights like a bully made him a ballet
with a sandwich tonight
though she could make him woe there
his thought of a foul corruption pranced
until the strike of midnight harrowed a chicken
with his luxury of their soul kitchen.

Chief. Of Police in Troy, N.Y. Died Jan. 17, 2017.

Eliminate the EPA.
Deregulate the Polluting Industries.
Kill off the American People.
All in the Name of
Jesus Christ.

Angie S 3d

I felt a soft pulse under a young boy’s
neck within my grotesque hands,
felt his breath escape his lungs like
a frightened snake in burning sands,
watched his eyes frantically search for a savior
but instead find my vile complexion.
My heart swelled with revenge against this
world that only resents me and yet
his shrill screams against the thunder,
the lightning outlining his still silhouette--
he was innocent, this I always remember.
I don’t deserve the pleasure of this hatred.

My next sin I committed against a cheerful man,
a sightseer in a beautiful, foreign land;
I closed my gruesome grip around his slender throat
and left him sleeping forever on the sand
under the luminous moon with his heart still, yet full of love;
how jealous I felt that he should die
and have someone to grieve for him, while I’m reprimanded
for living, or rather, simply existing,

My final mark I left as charcoal fingerprints
on the sweet skin of a new bride.
I instilled fright into her perfect wedding night
and, before a lake’s gentle rolling waves,
behind the watchful Jekyll to my vengeful Hyde, I
stole her life.

Her groom, a bright, scientific architect,
thought his monument a magnificent, malicious failure.
In his eyes, I am a virus upon the Earth’s body,
a hideous figure copied not in God’s image, but in the devil’s.
I should have known I’d always be alone
as my creator wishes I weren’t his own.
Doctor Victor Frankenstein, I hate every damn
inch of your perfect human frame, and I hate
the imperfections you’ve bestowed upon me.
I swear, I will reciprocate these bitter blessings
you have given me, and when I’ve ended you
once and for all,
only then can I rest;
I have nobody to love,
but I’ve got nothing to lose.

spoken word persona. i'm going to perform this piece this coming friday! :D i'm so excited. we're also selling a copy of our school literary and art magazine, which i was sooo excited to be an editor for... it looks great. things are looking up!

Do you see me?
Or are you blind like your mother?

I'll ask again.
Do you see me?
Or are you blind like your mother?
Don't tell me your deaf either.
That's not the answer I'm looking for.
I would have never burnt the bridge if you had never fallen off it.
Yet you still say you have the honor to sit so happily upon a throne that was not crafted in your name.
Are you blind like your mother?
Can you not see me?
Because if you can not see me, then I have no choice but to talk.
And I'm losing faith in dancing.
Because I'm almost sure you can not see me.

Maybe you’re both.
Deaf and blind,
because I have not heard any such news from you of an inability to see.
Or maybe you’re just inconsiderate.
Maybe you’re just mean.
Maybe you’re just dead.

Maybe I’m just lost.

Now that I think about it, I’m the blind one.
I’m the one whose face is smushed into the pillows, correct?
Isn’t that how it’s always been?
The realization, dawned sun, is crushing.
I’ma wait for the set though.
Soon the moon will be there in replacement.
Just to match my blue heart and blue eyes.

And when the sun arrives once again,
to complement my red blood splattered on the tile,
I will have my wish.
To meet and beat your blind mother.


These walls of my prison hath endured many ,                
suffering and suffocation,                                                     ­            
to me, they are the sweet calling of                                 

Nature, how you reminisce life and death,                             
come to my disposal today,                                                         
a­nd see the man.                                                                              who will dance at his decay.

When the noose tightens round my neck,                                        
I shall be smiling at the angel of death,                                             
who hath finally come to my rescue, O you lightening! Then   show yourself, mark the moment when my misery is dead.        

                                                                ­                                                 This world hath been my prison, my life thunder accursed.    The day I was born, I heard wars emerged.                                 
My mother who awarded me life showered me with love,            until I was poached at five, by a human trafficker.

He took me to a land far way.  Damned hades,                
enrobed me in smelly rags and paraded me through streets.       Since I wasn’t pitied, he cut my left hand.                                  
And hence came a shower of pennies.  

Pennies that went in his pockets and                                   
sufficed his villainy.                                                        ­                     
I was granted a plate of grub in return,                                        and perhaps no whipping if the pennies were his satisfaction.

And he comes home drunk one night,                                          his inebriated body betraying his senses.                               
Ready as a bird who is to take flight,                                                
I slashed him with his own dagger violating his defenses.


Henceforth I began to tarry,                                                         penniless and aggrieved.                                                       ­        
The world hath plenteous monsters,                                             
and I met my piece.

As I slept on the frozen streets of this cursed land,             
hunger clenched my stomach.                                                      Sick was the art of begging, a remnant of my stained past,      
but I knew no other.

Outside a fruit shop, I saw an old man buying yield.                     I fell at his legs and begged: “Prithee give me a morsel of food,    it wilt save my life."                                                                     ­   
But damn he gave me too much and taught me slavery.                                       
With my one hand,  
I swept his house and dusted his medallions.                          
That he hath earned courageously                                                  
on­ blood bathed battalions.

And one day, his ruddy daughter comes back home.              
Her name, Messina Oehme.                                                           ­  
O Messina, whence thee hath come from, paradise?                 Thy pulchritude is a vision fixated within my eyes.
                                                                ­                                                  Thou art like the first rain in a desert,                                             or an Alchemist’s prized long-yearned stone,                               At the touch of which,                                                           ­        
even dust turns gold.
Thy eyes deep wells of lust,                                                       
wher­e I want to see our future compart.                                    
Thy pale skin like the fantastic summer sky,                                 
a glance at which burned my heart.

I quoth, O Messina, let me not smolder alone in passion,      
thine art my souls only desire.                                                    
Even the grace of saints,                                                        
couldn’t unshackle me from love’s holy fire.

But misfortune hath come my way.                                            
Thy swinish father wedded you off to that wicked Glover.    
And at thy wedding I fixed the chairs,                                         
thy one sided lover.

But O Messina! Thy art still the summer that brightens my life.   I became an hourglass, thine love, my sand,
slowly pouring to the bottom of my heart, 
yet never vanquished from my soul’s devastated land.
                                                           ­                                                       And I remember when thee came to stay at father’s house.
I saw wicked Glover bruising thy angelic skin. 
He hurt and discolored an angel. 
The heavens thundered in protest on this mortal sin.

Rage devoured my soul, as I heard thy shrieks,
more horrific than the trumpet of doom.  
I picked up my dagger and impaled his heart.  
If evil fails to transport a fiend, then love does, to his tomb.

That madman deserved his pudh death. My dear Messina,
thee wilt live free. But thee looked at death empty and desolate heated. I quoth: “I gave you my life.”  
That was the last night I saw thee, thy love defeated.  


Why a man who loved so incessantly,  
will end up hearing the knell. 
Prithee God, if heaven at a fountain of love, 
Make my fate into the fire of hell.

Even if I write as much as the sea,
I cannot explain my misfortune in epistolary,  
Who wrought dole dost naught justice, 
to some it gave fulsome, to some nary.

A man named Wérig in prison recounts the events of his misfortune accursed life on the day he is to be executed.
Wérig means unfortune and weary.

i can't explain what I happened
the air above blackened
where people fell and flattened
the crunch of bones imagined

i can't describe the sound
when the Son of Satan crowned
the cheers and laughter abound
the noise of protest drowned

i can't describe the sight
when Satan's tribe did smite
the Son of God in white
just as John did write

i can't describe the smell
of those in locked up cells
their heads and arms they fell
refusing to go to hell

i can't describe the taste
of all the human waste
bodies all defaced
none of them were traced

i can't describe the feel
to see the weak kneel
the touch of burning steel
the real Achille's Heel

Xan Abyss Apr 15

Panasoffkee, Florida
Dressed in green and gold
Strangled with a 36 belt
Her corpse a whole month old

Rotting beneath the water
Nobody knew her body
Paul John Knowles
Was out on parole,
Could he be the killer at fault here?

Who was Miss Panasoffkee?
What happened to Constantina?
Found submerged in a river
Nameless and missing forever

Could she be an escapee, a runaway from Greece?
Fleeing her cruel husband as a romantic refugee?
Perhaps the world will never know
Perhaps we'll never see
Who the real identity may be
of Miss Lake Panasoffkee

Based on a 40+ year old cold case.

Jesus, Moses, and Mohammed
Approached the Defense Contractor.
He shot shot them all dead
With a flurry of bullets,
Killing all their Ideals.
That's the power
Of the gun.

Out from the skies
came the
of American

as we
-we pulled
we wiped
tears and told
they were
destined for
a better

A reflection in the solemn events of the U.S's airstrikes on Syria.
No one deserves to become statistics.
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