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shaqila Aug 2013
I have a list
The job is mundane, same old, same old
Murderers, conceiters, haters, ....
No remorse even at the last breath

Today is a busy day
Lots of you to claim
First on my list is a thief
He stole children for a living
And sold them to the highest bidder
Sometimes, I think the Guy upstairs is so unfair
What’s wrong with taking a child
And selling her so she’ll get a better life

Not that I’m complaining
Contrary to popular belief
Hell is kind of empty
Most people in their last living moments
Say they’re sorry and zam! I lose!

This guy is different
Peter Hinckley the Child Snatcher
He doesn’t know he’s walking into a trap
And he’ll be shot dead by the cop hiding across the street

So, here I am, Ok, Now!!
“Gotcha, come with me, Peter Hinckley!
Welcome to Hell! Where it’s always breakfast in bed! Not!
Haha!”

My next is a woman, those are rare down there
Henrietta Bugglery – “Gosh, what a name!”
Her one and only sin – loving herself too much
Till she hated everyone else

It’s not her fault, I don’t think
She has it all but wisdom
So how can it be her fault
Well I suppose she could have been better to her children
But she hated them too apparently
Ahh humans, I’ll never get them, I suppose!

Henrietta was ready but she didn’t expect Me!
Not that I’m not pretty but I have to hide my face
Seeing me sometimes jolts them back to life!

“OK, Missy, let’s go!”
“What do you mean let’s go? Who are you? And where are we going?”
“HELLLL! Missy!!”
“Who are you?”
“ Darth Vader!”
(and they say i don’t have a sense of humor)
“You mean like from Star Wars?”
“Yes, exactly that – Let’s Go!”
“I’m not going anywhere with you!”
“Oh come on, don’t make me zap you there.
I like you all to arrive happily, after all the rest of eternity is a long time”
“Get lost! I’m not coming with you!!”
“Oh well, you leave me no choice!
Welcome to Hell!”
I lift my hand and she is stretched excruciatingly (it appears) into Hell

You’d think my work is easy
Actually, it’s not
Sometimes, I wish we had some of your high tech equipments down there
Then, I won’t have to do this myself
I could have me some robots who would never mess up
Or suddenly have a soft heart like in the case of ....
Oh ****, I’m saying too much!!

*P.S. Don't worry, I'm probably not coming for you
P.S.S. I lie, a lot!
William Keckler Nov 2014
Atari clouds are digital ziggurats,
and rather minimal at that.
The sounds are Amiga.
Welcome to the eighties.

Your hair is big,
your clothes are odd,
and Nagel is a minor god.
Welcome to the eighties.

There is a plague
and ACT UP's rage,
but Reagan will not act his age.
For six years, he will say nothing.

Generation X gives birth to Y,
future hipsters to vilify.
All music is vinyl or cassette.
Rocks stars still wear epaulets.

There are two Coreys, podded peas.
Terrorists stay overseas.
Boy bands aren't quite yet in vogue.
Menudo carries a heavy load.

Ricky Martin is still straight.
Cimino ***** with Heaven's Gate.
Cindy Sherman is everyone.
Johnny Hinckley got his gun.

Welcome to the eighties.
Tyler King Jun 2016
THE REAGANS KILLED MY BEST FRIEND

THOUSANDS MORE DEAD, THE PLAGUED MASSES PLEADING TO BE MADE CLEAN

THOUSANDS MORE INCARCERATED, THE JUNK SICK DESPERATION VOMITING UP DEMONS IN JAIL CELLS

THOUSANDS MORE HOMELESS, DEEMED WORTHY OF NOTHING MORE THAN SPARE PENNIES AND BARELY CONCEALED DISGUST

I will not let the blood be washed away
I will not let history paint you as Saint
I will not let you be made holy
I will not become another casualty in your war
Not while I still have a voice
I spit on your grave
I see red
I bleed red
I am red
I am a rifle
I am a nuclear warhead
I am a Contra weaponizing loopholes in the law to **** my enemies with
I am Osama bin Laden as the Crucifed Christ
I am the AIDS victim drinking drop by drop of toxic blood while the hawks of war stifle laughter from gay jokes in their capitals
I am the ****** bashing my head into a wall hoping to destroy the itch before it destroys me
I am the beggar who the wealth never trickled down to
I am the mental patient met with closed doors anf nothing but ammunition to soothe the screaming in my head
I am the workers on strike chiming out the death knell of the unions and my own autonomy
I am the Soviet child living one badly timed joke from holocaust

I AM THE DEATH MASK OF YOUR ANNIHILATION
I AM THE DAMAGE DONE
I AM WASHINGTON BURNING DOWN
I AM MOSCOW INSOMNIAC
I AM HINCKLEY IN MY DREAMS I **** YOU EVERY NIGHT
I AM WATCHING YOU RISE AGAIN
I AM TERRIFIED OF YOUR SURVIVAL
I AM READY TO DIE BEFORE I LET YOU RESUME CONTROL
I AM SICK OF LIVING IN YOUR SHADOW
I SPIT ON YOUR GRAVE
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2017
upon reading frank o'hara's
getting up ahead of
someone (sun)
, while thinking
the days i spent reading
kierkegaard's either / or
it finally dawns on me -
it dawns on me that the most
benevolent teacher of
composition, is, well, it actually
is quiet simply: the reader;
it's almost odd, that no
"creative" writing workshop can
teach you,
by respecting reading, foremost,
by never the overzealous ****
of "creativity",
even the most debasing critique of
a book can be equilibrated
into, something akin to this;
while somewhere in a distant
future, the next john hinckley or
the next mark chapman,
is found, possessing charles dicken's
david copperfield,
   and not all that holden caulfield
sort of crap.
So many times I have hungered for your penetrative love. Your shirt was torn when you crashed that new helicopter. I couldn't believe that you weren't killed. The Grand Canyon is deep. I pray that your helicopter is operational. My sister is having another baby again. Can you believe it? Skipper wouldn't strip on the ship, even after I struck, with an oar, her lip. It's John Hinckley's foster love that makes me fester. I respond in attack-mode to mod attacks. I tire of me after long spurts. The pope's people-friendly, while I'm 'possum-nutty. It's true. I'm faultfully honest. Rose, like risen, is the past tense of rise. André Previn ain't bound for heaven, as I don't stick my hairy **** out when I'm going down the truck route.
So many times I have hungered for your penetrative love. Your shirt was torn when you crashed that new helicopter. I couldn't believe that you weren't killed. The Grand Canyon is deep. I pray that your helicopter is operational. My sister is having another baby again. Can you believe it? Skipper wouldn't strip on the ship, even after I struck, with an oar, her lip. It's John Hinckley's foster love that makes me fester. I respond in attack-mode to mod attacks. I tire of me after long spurts. The pope's people-friendly, while I'm 'possum-nutty. It's true. I'm faultfully honest. Rose, like risen, is the past tense of rise. André Previn ain't bound for heaven, as I don't stick my hairy **** out when I'm going down the truck route.
Your shirt was torn when you crashed that new helicopter. I couldn't believe that you weren't killed. The Grand Canyon is deep. I pray that your helicopter is operational. My sister is having another baby again. Can you believe it? Skipper wouldn't strip on the ship, even after I struck, with an oar, her lip. It's John Hinckley's foster love that makes me fester. I respond in attack-mode to mod attacks. I tire of me after long spurts. The pope's people-friendly, while I'm 'possum-nutty. It's true. I'm faultfully honest. Rose, like risen, is the past tense of rise. André Previn ain't bound for heaven, as I don't stick my hairy **** out when I'm going down the truck route.
So many times I have hungered for your penetrative love. Your shirt was torn when you crashed that new helicopter. I couldn't believe that you weren't killed. The Grand Canyon is deep. I pray that your helicopter is operational. My sister is having another baby again. Can you believe it? Skipper wouldn't strip on the ship, even after I struck, with an oar, her lip. It's John Hinckley's foster love that makes me fester. I respond in attack-mode to mod attacks. I tire of me after long spurts. The pope's people-friendly, while I'm 'possum-nutty. It's true. I'm faultfully honest. Rose, like risen, is the past tense of rise.
So many times I have hungered for your penetrative love. Your shirt was torn when you crashed that new helicopter. I couldn't believe that you weren't killed. The Grand Canyon is deep. I pray that your helicopter is operational. My sister is having another baby again. Can you believe it? Skipper wouldn't strip on the ship, even after I struck, with an oar, her lip. It's John Hinckley's foster love that makes me fester. I respond in attack-mode to mod attacks. I tire of me after long spurts. The pope's people-friendly, while I'm 'possum-nutty. It's true. I'm faultfully honest. Rose, like risen, is the past tense of rise. André Previn ain't bound for heaven, as I don't stick my hairy **** out when I'm going down the truck route.

— The End —