She was the only son
Her father never had.
Her legs were lean and long,
Alas, her eyes were bad.
And then at Sweet Sixteen
Her Father drove her mad.
(A sicko is a psycho, after all.)
And after ten long years
They set her on the street.
With a pretty dress
And new shoes on her feet.
And so she looks for Daddy...
Or any fresh, new meat.
(Cuz an axe is an axe, after all.)
Put it out of course others have doubts
Twist and turn the meaning of words
Right or wrong it needed to be said
Real emotions cantle expressed
Too many jerks shut down the topic
Accuse or trying to understand
Try not to be sensitive but feel dumb
Rude bullies talk like they know but have no clue
Emotions beat black and blue
Thoughts to strike overeact that the trigger to help them win
Loss of temper feels like a sin
Mouth burns a hole in their heart
Can't handle the lynch they started on others
Being honest is the code
Truth is cold not trying to hold on
Or give them the upper hand
Thumbs down check them no more messing around
little collected emblems
small symbolic weapons
find myself naked
caressing unforgiving ground
but the moonlight warms me
even in the rain
as I lay
Imperfect center to my holy ring
my treasures guarding
Finger space my soldiers
to align with the stars
now gone from your forest green jewels
Perception overruled outcome
The wind blows
I start again
Murdering is an art!
It takes caution, skill, and smarts.
It also takes a weapon.
In the case of murdering, you can say...
that technically a human murders every day,
may not be of it's own kind, but...
we kill other living things every single day.
Do we see them?
No, maybe, possibly, I don't know. Do you?
Jack the Ripper!
I murder prostitutes,
women who defile their bodies by
showing off their breasts and bellies...
and innards...to lost men.
I don't know why I kill this specific kind of pray...
but I do...And I know its fun teasing the media.
Maybe I should start murdering the men too...
Sneak into the room while their...going about their business...
...Never mind...That's a nasty thought...
Murderers care about that kind of thing too, you know?
They do not cry.
They don't have time to cry.
They do not scream.
They do not have time to scream.
I slice their throat first,
which means I win from the start.
Then...Save for my third,
I drag their innards around their bodies
like...fuzzy neck boas.
I take no souvenirs...It would cause a havoc...
A havoc I prefer not to have...
© 2012 Melody
I swear the machine is the culprit
It explains the sore bones and sleepless nights
from the moment your fist meets the black button
before the ink of time has dried
it grips you in caste iron clamps
inserts its phallic tube into your spine
and drains your humanity
gorging on it like famished swine
Through an ocean of searing hot oil
and pummeled flour
it laughs at you
a sordid laugh stinking of raw meat
amplified by static voices over an intercom
each beep penetrating with the force of a power drill
please hold for a moment
I've seemed to have spilled my brain onto this greasy floor
let me scoop it onto some rice for you
an original chop.
Little Bow Peep
Told everyone she had lost her
And didnt know where to
She had slaughtered them
All of them for
And sold the wool to china,
Told no one of the secret
She so secretly did keep,
To why the sheep had gone missing
Killing any and all from finding.
She was a
And had a fetish obsession of the sheep,
She was meant to looking after.
Peep Merrily nailed each and
Everyone of them,
More like half a dozen times,
Sometimes cuddled up with
Her dick still inside them.
So when eating
With chips, if tasting a little salty,
Then Little Bow Peep
Had slept with that sheep
And ejaculated inside them.
Zen inside the water
Peacefulness at night
Although I'm awake for most of it..
I never had friends
with overextended strings
I always had words
sharp as daggers they sting
Anger in the trees
Their siblings are chopped down
They gave us air to breath
Never seen as profound
We always take advantage
Use abuse and destroy
Everything that loves us
Like children with their toys
there's Mick Jagger and i have a lobster - ooh
hey yeah fan mail - i'll die tonight listening to
alpha bravo... charlie out;
summertime Kabul Tupac Shake Jovi - Bon Bon
Mangetout Rodney, the flyer across the street
of Peckham East on a tricycle -
any other onomatopoeia too -
or a knock knock joke?
how many times will the joke last
before the joke ends and i
send you two to the scaffold
with Antoinette's head rolling,
down down south?
what? you the only billionaire
with a puppet instrument gagging
teen girls worth a colliding shout?!
i too sold out,
i signed a fuck you and then thank fucky fucky
bowed out on holiday in Thailand.
oh here comes Layla with Clapton,
genie and the Harrison and wasted Beatlemania -
tomorrow sounds just fine
and welcome to repeat with high tea at 5 take or hoot bonkers
clarification a repeat; or thus said vogue:
it was necessary to keep the garden primed,
even if it was Liverpool F.C. -
and everyone said that Michael Owen was an estate agent.