You’re a crash out,
Life hanging in the fray,
Like meat on a hook,
Begging the gator to grab it’s bite.

Worthless in your self indulgent importance
Weak bodied malcontent
A mental amputee with no prosthetic to aid a thought
Narcissus in Australian skin
You resemble worthless.

You prey on children
Like a bad Freddy Krueger film
Promises of encouragement
In crude pornographic suggestions
Buy them off in golden tickets,
But no one buys the chocolate,
You’re no Wonka at all.

Derelict in a domicile
A stranger to your ailing family
Not one reaches to save,
Just wishes you’d die to match the day
You died in their eyes
Already forgotten, beside a grave
A walking cancer, zombie like in parasitic need
A whirlwind of discomforting regrets
Wrapped in a middle aged obese frame,
No one could ever love you.

Sad impotent invalid,
With your melodramatic fallacies
Crying wolf to any ears unaware
And yet the only animal resides
Behind beady feminine eyes,

The mirror reflects,
And reality rejects
A simple, simpleton
With tiny hands,
And malformed manhood
Better befitting a woman’s pleasure nub,
You stimulate not even an emotion from the corpses.

I don’t hate you though,
No hate requires a measurement of care
And the truth is if you disappeared,
And washed ashore a bleached whale,
And they said you wrote me love letters
I’d disregard you the same,
Take your animosities and add them into a sum of zero
Because I feel nothing but indifference

A predator that ***** at hunting prey
And I am the poacher,
I’ll skin you while you’re alive
Just so you can see the ugly underneath
The muscle will touch acidic baths,
And the current will wash you away.

You wish to ****** a child,
But I have ****** your brain,
Without consent and there is no safe word
And no where new you can hide,
Because you kicked this hornet’s nest
And I am not so easily extinguished
An eternal flame to watch you burn
I’ll render you embers and ash,
And spread you across the web
Like outstretched stars in the universe
A connect the dots to the face of a *******

And I’ll watch you hang yourself
By the very rope you’ve woven
With every lie typed and spoken
I will see you, destroy yourself.
And then I will have peace.

Just as it should be,

the triumphant army strides --


on dissonances.

It's Friday the thirteenth
again. I stay at home
due to circumstances:

a dragging wind
and storming sirens
The cameras break

taboos and peek
into windowless sleeping
rooms, front pieces

after the wind of roughskirts
who celebrate their gains
in stinking silence. I close

the curtains, my eyes and mouth
I'm not here, hello hello
don't you see I'm not here

and I can do nothing about it -
absent due to circumstances
which I can do nothing about

At home, in the sun, I watch
the news intently, I study the photos
the parabola of a mortar
like a shooting star
and the grey ruins after the impact

There are cameras everywhere
I shiver from everything
I do and don't want to know
but I wouldn't know anything
if I didn't know

I read of people
who woke up and
ran to a cellar
their children crying
in the pale morning light

The wounded crawl over debris
scramble past the charred cars
An ambulance drives away
Daily corpses, daily news
with survivors

with a dry mouth
speechless, pale in the sun
in which I follow the news
with my sharp eyes
my cool heart

You are like a magician

your hands working in stealth-like fashion

revealing little about who you are

finger prints of time have passed you by

as you honed your talents and skills

to manipulate people’s minds

so that they believe they are in control

all the while you hold the strings like

on a puppet or character named Pinocchio

obscuring or twisting the truth as you meld

our hearts and dreams into nightmares

providing dark thrills to your repertoire

while making victims of the audience

who attend these spectacles you readily compose

to entrap those weak of soul

and so it starts like someone under hypnosis

pliant to your every command

unaware of your intentions

until it is too late

Andreas Simic©

~
I hold still,

let him finish stabbing me

                                                 — I count six,

let him believe me dead,

he moves on to Cecelia.

--

It does not go as well for her

as she continues to writhe and scream

and carry on,

not well at all
                                             
               ­                              — I count eight,

                                                                nine,

                                                                ten...
~

Little feet walking
Endlessly far
Big eyes  wide open
Only seeing the war
Little hands clutching
everything nearby
Little skinny bodies
Numb, just wanting to cry
A child tired  and hungry
With no place to go
No  destiny nor future
Nothing... No home..
Eyes big and wide open
Seeing only the dark
That ..... people
is our
refugee child.

Shell
🐚✨