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Rabies & genocide, boys & girls,
my contemporabies and also future shack-
dwellers (drumroll, *** note):  presenting

the Swatches of Hell, my vernissage
entitled 'Infernissage'. It'd be easier to ask
whose soul the show is not awaiting

when eyesockets are groped in the darkness
of a ver'massage, worse than a new
leather headache. Save for saying

'without further ado', without further ado:
(1) Charcoal childshape of Torchy the real boy,
where the boy had stood on the burning decking

before curling up. Pyropygmy had pinbolided
- bedroombedroomdownstairsfrontdoorback!
Till, to his Royal Borough of Chelsea & Kensing-

ton-crispy injuries, succumbing in the
mockingly fresh nightair. Firegutted passers' eyes
mark this Casabianca Philpott's passing,

whitehot rust of seethrublue welding them pink, not
his the sunny rebirthmarks of beatific burnsvictims
on 'This Morning' too mawkish for mourning.

(2) Rubicund/t gammon Brexshitter on #BBCQT.
Shirecoarse broflake of a certain age, whose purple rage
pulses w/ excess of free radicals, fulminating    

against an excess of Free Radicals. Oxidisation
at the state of the nation. The greatest trick
the Devil ever pulled was convincing

us he's nothing like David Dimbleby.
(3) Gammon down the doctor's, no quizzical
ripple on quack's accordion brow - simple dyingnosing

a carotid grume in ruddifazed
British bullfrog's fatberg of jowlveins.
His backgarden Gammon Gammadion flying

at halfmast in a pig's whisper, if
sweet 'n' sour lobster pantone of
St.Georgie-Porgie's protein perspiration's anything

to go by. On his way to an early
Inheritance Tax dodge by his Thatcherite
farrow (sow's ear effect sowers ), confirming

bacon acorns don't fall far
from the Gammon's magic Mammon tree
4) Idiopathic craniofacial erythema at a kilfudyoking

over a dynamite toothpick, when the realisation shites
a ******* light both sides were incinerated on the spot
upon the surface of Friggjarstjarna (Space X booking

clutzclicked). (5) As if the cursed perspex of the Red
Hood wedged on backtofront, the ponceau plasma
kerblammo of cheap shot deathscending

like the red mist upon Prince Prospero
towards his poxy masquecrasher, Red Death,
but from the rear, is genickshuß too late blowing

away blindness in occipital eyes of adage,
e.g. those in back of the caput of top dog immortalised
in dogfood - capitaneus canum, Brutus, donning

no ghillie toga to bump off emperor chum.
(6) Carnivorous-pillarbox shade, prettymuchnot peace-
painted nails of gobsworth jobshite murderdoll dialing

in another Axis-might-as-well-won-day Monday...
For the agency temp. From a blondsports arena
- not Berlin '36 - but gammon gangmaster's king-

size in a pig's styescraper, slap flawless as a paralysed
actress (& her maquillage too), murderdoll her own  
officilicious entertainmeat overloveegging

as Miss Axis Mundi, when cash is queen in urban jumanji
of the UK. Her Nominal Majesty's - nominally - Murdocracy
of murdered dolies. Here, hollow as a bacon thorn bonking

a murderdoll hollow, beauty only follows the money,
the carnal collateral. (7) Sartorial butcher's rainbow of the
Satrap of Toast O' Clock Tophet (sadly not coming

w/ a cone). I don't mean MC. #BBCQT, I mean
the Devil IRL-oosely i.e. the Arch-Hole of myth.
His tartarean tuftaffety w/ auburn ape trimmings  

Borneo bones bled, which owe more to Deforest than
Kelley (practically fratricidal for us mowler honkies,
chinkpanzees & hanuman beigings expatriating

the Africark, yet we are the furriers to the furnace-
keeper). He's been around for a long, long year
- Asmodeus on an English Triumph - but now lolling

over (8) orange eschatology, better to reign
than be flagitious in the fireign line, excruciatingly
expireign & respireign as they moan 'Ooo excruciating!'

in an excruciating manner for 666 x ∞ , that old excruciator.
W/ a fairwind of the dashdamndickens behind them,
t'iddly oakly 'ades boomtube transgressors ranging

from singlesided shouldershruggers to susan stranglers,
mostly multiple offenders hellbending like snot otters
thru the immoral maze of the Malebolge. Cackling

over the crackling Karakazan stirrers from Serbia
& karakdealers from Scarburbia, molten fate
of malefactors no Factor 30 could curb becoming

fact of searing snowangeled faculae in a caldera
of correction, but the Bluest Fiend is the truest friend
of the little children. Beelzeblubbing

hellish tears of tearspray & swazzling w/ sternutation
of consternation, (9) Blucifer (his blah-hue that of a
Neptunian whose neb-blue-lousness saluting

by Bengal lights illumes) is a blue Rubicante
when his sadistyworld flamepark avenges
Hubineks & Heather Wests. We are worth hating,

the Devil's seen the intel. We fence
our consciences at art galleries, buy coffee table prints
like papal indulgences. But Jesus is a gerund.
Mona May 2016
I heard the wild thunders as they approached my territory .
I felt your thirst for my blood in the air we call used to call home .
I  listened out for your remorsefulness in the way you ran against peace.

Silently I stood there waiting for the tides to turn in my favor .
Silently I stood there with my mouth open waiting to join your pack.
Silently I stood there waiting for your voice to pull me into your winds .

Blamelessly I stood on the cliff holding on to my dying flowers .
Blamelessly I stood on the cliff holding on the roaring currents .
Blamelessly I stood on the cliff only to descend to grave sites that I  know not of .

But don't agonize over me because
I got used to the fall, to the cold, to  the anguish.
Above everything else I bloomed before you even noticed.
So be sure you're not afraid when I  rise above thunders and roaring currents .

I know how these things work ..........
A dedication to the cliff survivor who exists in all of us
JayceeJellies Oct 2015
You engraved a mark on me
a mark that will never leave
something that I'll never forget
and forever be cursed with
but now I'm the forgotten
and even if I remember it all
I'd be surprised if you remember..
after one of the longest nights in my memory, which in and of it's self lends to a rather limited faculty lol, and one of the darkest in recent years, I have finally let it all go, and amazingly, or more accurately shockingly to me it was the giving up the ghost that devastated me, giving up that nice and beautiful delusion proved to be a rather surprising thing.
something so seemingly simple and easy things, so truly self created surly, yeah, so simple a thing and have it up, and .... crash. I was blindsided by how utterly and completely I had truly began to rely on it, for it/ she / this delusion of a possible love became my only life boat in a deep and raging sea. **** me. **** me I ******* fell.
**** me I fell for every thing, **** me I fell for the mathematical sound, **** me I fell for the voice that I truly just....   **** me I fell, for the absolute beauty of her, she is just, simply the most beautiful thing I have seen , soft, bold, true to focus, scared, shy, graceful, timid, honest in studering stumbling of self conscience and shy, she is so brash and kick ads, so kind and abused so healing of herself and others, so judgmental and temperamental, so bossy and sad ***, so silly *** goofy and truly for that alone ,son she is bad ducking ***, she sure as hell is all these things to me, and I never expected her to live up to any of these things, but only to be what ever she be so long as she be it whole and truly.  is all, all of this all from my own silly stupid creating, your **** right and **** wrong. and I need not prove or explain it, yet , for her I will give this.  yes, I laid all these qualities and flaws of perfection upon her breast, straight out of my mind so as to give me some **** hope, **** me. but I so many times took great care in silencing my everything to listen to what I thought was her, and these things range true.   and I truly and forever more will be content in knowing them all to be true, and I have let it go.  does this mean that I will not be slapped sideways when I find she in my dreams and I fall flat *** upon my face  and kids her each time yet never allowing any thing more for desiring to respect her?  well let's say , I could not stop it if I tried and I tried. but I do not, will not seek to find, I do not look to think of her in my mind. I will not actually of intent search or wish that she ever read any utterance of me not my ****** and broken windows. and this brought my world to it's **** knees, in a crying, slobbering plea to Our Lord for anything to relieve.
does this mean I will turn her away if such a strange or unlikely thing happen that she everfind her self standing before me? what are you insane, hell no I would never turn her away, even at 80 years old bent broken and grey, but I will not seek her. and would probably fall to my grace from shock if she were to ever grace the place for mine eyes to see before me.  but, this has torn me in two, shattered my heart, and half my soul has vanished all from a **** me, delusion I fell for, **** me I fell in love,  real and true, **** me I fell all the way and I have had to throw it all away, and am left with out that comfort of delusion to carry me through. so I am at the bottom of the abyss, pitch black, no bio luminescent nothing, it is cold and I am lost. but this I choose for I have up all of my illusions and beautiful delusions for my Lord and savoir and here I wait without any claim to wealth or silly *** fame and resigning from this game for I tried, to do the best I could to make a difference and find , show, remind of the good. I must have failed, for here I sit in this place, and I simply have nothing else to say. I love you all, thank you for any support, I forgive the pains placed upon me but I am broken and half the man I ever would or could have ever been.  I hope you choose to do yourselves and one another right, be deerhearted and gentle to each other and sing your heart song in love and out loud.  good bye.  ricci dale moon / scott    badger crow moon / the shine of moon_shine  through and through, I truly do love you. all in all and all of you with my all.
Julia Elise Jun 2015
disgusting creature
belly scrapes the ground as it moves
small minded animal
ignorance has shone through

evil being with beliefs unfit
even for the underworld
potential for divinity
shot down by sin

ashamed by its words
horrified by the language
nasty things fall from its tongue
corruptive and *****

completely intriguing
nearly convincing
phrases mesmerizing

nearly to entirely
believed in the lie
satisfaction becomes regret
everything happens at once

nothing is the same
not after the fall
relates to the devil or boys. either works.
Sometimes I wonder if there is any line between poetry and prose, or prose and story. Where is this line? What is the difference? Is it some kind of structural difference? The problem with this is it becomes difficult to define where the structural lines are drawn. Is it some difference in the use of language? Anyone who has read Burroughs knows there is very little difference between his language in poem and prose. It all comes down to that old bald thought experiment. If we were to remove hairs from a man’s head, one by one, at what point would he be bald? It must be the context. This is a poem because it is presented as such.  

The thing about it is I don’t really give a ****.

The thing about it is that I’m just looking for something that I do not know.
And I get a kick out of pretending
And sometime something something I’m a little bit high now folks
Because sometimes I need something too
all the time
And Some might say that you can get a lot higher without drugs than with them
But at this day and age that’s becoming less and less clear for most folks
Including myself
And that’s pure Thompson
May the great decadent castle topple down!
And I, like a noble captain,
Will sink with her
I stand with hunched broken back
On the backs of millions
Pondering lifelessly

I smell something. I can’t really know what. It’s horrible. I do not know if it is me or someone around me. A woman in front of me has a dark line around the back of her neck. As if that crease her skin collected some errant dirt and she never washed it off. I don’t know but it may be her. Or I may be a ******* because she is pretty fat. And that’s empirical. And I know it’s not her fault, but I may have some sick bias against fat women brought on by repeated social direction. I remember when I thought of myself as undesirable. I did not wash. And I didn’t shower yesterday. And really I don’t know if this line here on her neck is really dirt, but ******* that smell. It’s killing me, and even distracting me from the gripping narrative of the American sedition laws during WW1. Honestly it is probably me, but why is it so persistent? Wouldn’t I fall victim to scent saturation blindness, or whatever that affect is called. The point is you can’t normally smell your own stink, and none of us even notice our own stink. I think there is something in that somewhere. I can’t smell my own stink, and so I blame this poor girl.

— The End —