"manslaughter" poems
.
***Ancient games
tell tales of dust. ||| A story drawn
from the lips of two poets.***
~~~~~
It's the wits that **** not Queens of ivory or ***ink. ***
Charged with coal strokes, scraping up the lies.
Pawns & Knights slip between the grasp of the sun, leaking into* lion jaws of Leo.
Shifting these granite plates, ignoring the Rooks common price of aslant.
Here we have slain kin, crescent traitors that backstab the night and battlefield.
Closed doors and trap floors, trade me a tie, swindling your tactic ruts.
Reality never got the noose around our necks, check turned into manslaughter, and kingdoms ripped asunder by the roar of Jupiter
Get up, get up, get away from these liars, they can't have your rank or your fire.
Peak a notion, this match is spared by a luft.
Toss away the pride buried 'neath your dusty skin, it don't matter no more if death has you by the lips.
Silence is a language too in our eyes of earth.
Take my hand, knott your soul into this downfall, and brace yourself for the wreckage in our bones.
The Sword of Sorrows will fall 'pon your shoulders, not to slay thee, but to dub thee a new day.
The drums of war will knit the lyrics in the sky,
singing:
"The mighty sharpen their fangs, the weak sharpen their wisdom"
~~~~~
I'm tired of your wishbones, and golden scales, give me the hard-earned truth.
Hot coals of honesty may you tread upon, shadow-bitten remorseful may you be, don't stray off the course of Ursa major.
The North star isn't the one I follow
It's the moon with all of it's phases,
Eclipsing and crescent, tipping the sky with it's beauty.
Now let this sink further than any soul has ever sunk,
no man could ever
*rule the moon.
~~~~~~
***Shoot on command,
C
h
e
c
k
m
a
t
e***
~~~~
You could drag me to hell and back and those words wouldn't mean anything.
Let this downfall become a downfell,
Because last I checked
"Wolves worship the moon"
and I have broke it's reflection in the water
*Just
by
throwing
s
t
o
n
e
s
.*
.
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 3:19 PM UTC
I want to get hit by a BMW.
I want to get hit by a Mercedes.
I want to get run over by a Porsche.
Something big.
I want to get smeared against the pavement
by a Cadillac Escalade.
I want to get hit by one of those big ********
who drag gasoline across the continent,
but I want the driver to be a manic psychopath.
I want him to stalk me on the sidewalk
and then run me over slowly.
He's not any coward, not like those bald patriarchal
Corvette drivers in polo shirts tucked into khakis.
No, he's a great fat man, a hairy beast with
a crooked stare that slows the pulse on impact.
I want the police to cringe or get scared interrogating him,
and haul his truck somewhere to be inspected.
I want the price of gas in nearby areas to go up
by at least fifteen cents for two weeks.
I want to get hit by a BMW.
I want to roll over the windshield,
and drag under the bottom for about ten yards.
I want to separate at the middle and leave organs on his
left side view mirror and hanging on his hood ornament.
I want to seep blood deep into his car,
and when he turns on his heat,
he'll smell my blood full blast in his face
burning.
I want to wreck the car inside and out.
I want to get hit by a car with a McCain sticker on the bumper.
I don't want to get hit by some middle class Ford or Honda,
or someone's shit-level Chevy or beat up jalopy.
I want to get hit by a BMW.
I want the driver to make his tires scream like banshees,
and leave four long streaks of rotten burned rubber on the asphalt.
I want him to step out in business attire, and gasp, inwardly.
I want to flip off the sky, because my aim is bad,
and call him a coward for hitting the brakes.
I want him to think,
"What did I do?
Is he Okay?
What am I going to do?
What if I lose my license?
How will I get to work?
How will I pay for this.
Does my insurance cover
vehicular manslaughter?
I'm not alone right?
I'll get through this.
I'll survive.
I'll just be another statistic.
That's all."
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 12:46 PM UTC
Sitting by the river bank,
slipping in and out of consciousness,
realizing my life's a complete mess.
What's the point of living it?
Sitting by the river bank,
stripping myself of my clothes,
destroying my I.D. so no one knows,
who I am.
Sitting on the river bank,
head submerged underwater,
committing the act of manslaughter,
on myself.
Floating by the river bank,
all is calm and serene,
not a living soul is to be seen,
and I am happy, free.
Apr 14, 2012
Apr 14, 2012 at 11:56 AM UTC
Jack and Jill
Went up the hill
With Bill And Ted
To buy two bottles
Of mineral water.
Jack and Jill
Came tumbling down
Fatally cracking their heads open
And the local council was done
For corporate manslaughter.
But Bill and Ted
Came down on their mountain bikes
With the mineral water
towed on a skateboard.
And having buried Jack and Jill
At an environmentally friendly funeral
They headed for the Amazon
On solar powered surfboards.
Thus they concurred
This was yet again
As vinegar
Bed and
Brown paper-free
As there ever could be
Excellent Adventure.
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 8:49 AM UTC
A six-legged Asian cockroach just washed up on American soil, and it can lay eggs on ice.
Roaches are infamous for the myth that they're one of the few species that could survive an atomic bomb. It's not science, but even Adam Savage and his gang of Myth Buster's say it's beyond myth: a human croaks after ten minutes of exposure to 1,000 units of cobalt 60. But for roaches, 10% of their population survives after exposure to 10,000 rads - hell, it's better than zero.
This new species is the most evolutionarily persistent thing ever - if surviving means anything, it win's life on earth, hands down.
But I'd rather be a monkey.
We **** up and **** ourselves everyday. We slip and **** ourselves with power tools, or smash our fists into soccer referees and manslaughter oops **** We shoot ourselves off of propulsion equipment to see what happens. Bone-crunching splatter ****
From 100 feet up, we look like ******* mad men.
But the roach shows up carefully and gets **** done with nasty perseverance. The roach with vapid speech and wide eyes, glued to efficiencies and body armor.
To exist plainly - to work, eat. and sleep - is done best by roaches. Success is a cockroach.
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 1:48 AM UTC
A CRUISE SHIP
STRANDED IN CITY STREETS
A FIRETRUCK
ON FIRE IN THE RAIN
DO YOU UNDERSTAND
MY LOVE FOR YOU YET
THIS IS DRAMATIC IRONY
YOURE KILLING TIME
IN THE BEST WAYS
AND SOON ENOUGH
IM BLEEDING OUT
TO YOUR VOICE
BOUNCING OFF THESE WALLS
YOU ALWAYS PUT THE LAUGHTER
IN MANSLAUGHTER
[holyoak]
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 2:29 PM UTC
at eight
i stood at open closed caskets and planted plastic flowers
upon silent graves;
in the backseat on the way to my grandfather's wake
mom and dad played a song about angels over the stereo. they
had to turn it off when i burst into tears.
i did not understand the twenty one gun salute
but i left a piece of myself in the folding of the flag,
left it with forty nine stars in the wrinkled hands of the widow.
vulnerable, kissing the loss of the dewy cemetery, the fresh dirt and
at thirteen
she was stolen at the hands of another,
just after her forty-second trip around the sun;
i cradled my always strong father as he cursed god on the kitchen floor.
the night my sister cried into my shoulder i read ten different articles,
each one with a headline reading "manslaughter", while
the soles of my feet knew it meant ******
the pool of blood flashed to my vision and
i've spent seven years trying to bleach the stain out
from behind my eyelids -
lighting a memorial candle at my future wedding, graduation, childbirth
my mother did not deserve generic music at her remembrance.
at sixteen
i squeezed into a pew as
the church sanctuary was too small for her service.
widely loved and widely known, she
had been sick for fourteen years with no rest; fought
collapsed lungs and bared organs and
her eyes were as soft as the words she would leave you with.
her breath marooned the thirteenth of february and
on valentine's day, my best friend received a rose at her doorstep
with a note that read, "i love you more than chocolate.
love, mom".
at nineteen
we did not have class for one week. his daughter was five years old
and he was two semesters away from
getting his bachelor's degree in a helping profession;
he sat two rows ahead of me, one seat over
next to a boy named aaron and an empty chair.
the pastor spoke of a freedom from pain,
joy joy, hallelujah, a man who loved god;
they did not disclose the cause of death the morning the dean
entered our classroom,
spoke three words and
the silence fell -
sometimes, sometimes, we will never know why.
Jul 1, 2018
Jul 1, 2018 at 5:45 PM UTC
alarm
dogmatical snakebird dictator
**** rooster of electro maniacal damnation
wake
goober eyed ithyphallic mortal yahoo yawns
glacier shuffle to Midas’ bowl
brush
minty hairy pasty headed ********
seafoam ***** on white vanity beaches
shave
deceitful murderous metal cartel scraping
dead shrubs from yesterday’s winter
breakfast
egg flour chalk smack
guzzling bean kerosene
work
batshit bureaucratic badgers bludgeon
muktuk hamsters lubricating wheels of fortune
lunch
butcher’s dead friend between greasy toasted cement
harlot’s heavenly tomato mating cabbage cousin
work
taradiddle of martyrs at jargon’s temple blather
babble, bumble - copulation without ***********
dinner
unicorn steaks, butterfly sauté, and
leprechaun fingers, a side of manslaughter dolphin
sleep
a felon’s holiday
repeat
Jan 23, 2019
Jan 23, 2019 at 3:56 AM UTC
I want to **** this fear, butchers knife cut it limb to limb
I want to decimate this helplessness, pull it apart seam by seam bare hands
I want to destroy this desperation, tie the rope and hang it from rafters
I want to manslaughter this conflicted uncertainty, a ****** mess on the kitchen floor
**** them, before they **** me.
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 9:40 AM UTC
I'm sick
I'm sick of every filter
I'm sick of fake photographers
I'm sick of fake philosophers
and Instagram pornographers
I'm sick of the fake feminists
who don't understand the movement
I'm sick of fake politicians
who make no ******* improvements
I'm sick of all the favorites
I'm sick of all the likes
I'm sick of ******* tinder
causing cheating every night
I'm sick of ******* eyebrows
like who ******* cares
when did we become so obsessed
with ******* forehead hair
I'm sick of religion
I'm sorry but it's true
it's caused so much division
in our red white and blue
I'm sick of trump supporters
who never read the news
they want to close our borders
but don't understand the ruse
I'm sick of fake people
who pretend for us all
cover their old selves in diesel
didn't hesitate or stall
I'm sick of Caitlin Jenner
she/he whatever isn't noble
committed ******* manslaughter
yet still remains boastful
I'm sick of post it note relationships
that last for three weeks
it's not a ******* battleship
just make the proper tweaks
I'm sick of all these hookups
it's become a culture
all of these pickups
initiated by the vultures
I'm sick of everyone caring
about what celebrities wear
I'm sick of overbearing hate
that never ever spares
I'm sick of all the judgment
of how a person looks
I'm sick of everyone watching YouTube
trading it for books
I'm sick of all this money
that we will never see
I'm sick of never knowing
what I'm supposed to do
I'm sick of schooling never showing
how to live our lives through
I'm sick of all this debt
that I'll be paying until my death
Im sick of feeling like our society is *******
but most of all I'm really sick
that this list has applied to me too.
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 11:11 AM UTC
The friend zone is a painful place to stay
A place you will be trapped in for longer than a day
You will feel the hopelessness of being just a friend
The never ending feeling of having to pretend
You never know which day you'll finally be free
So I'll share a little secret between you and me
The friend zone is a jail cell, so stop wasting your time
It's almost like manslaughter, if wanting someone were a crime
You've got what it takes to finally leave
But you think they like you, is that what you believe?
The friend zone is higher than Mt.Everest and harder to climb
You're wasting so much effort, money and probably time
Turn your back on people who have so many to choose
Just take your pride and walk away, you've got nothing to lose
If they put you in the friend zone, it's almost never reversed
So don't be someone's second choice, if they are your first.
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 6:42 AM UTC
She is beautiful, with her hair in disarray. She sets man against man, woman against woman, and both against each other
She whispers into the ear of sleeping children, who awake as adults in her service.
All fear her, for she cannot be known.
She masquerades as order, enticing humanity; the fire that huddled neanderthals gaped at in thanks become the flames that consume.
To fight against her is futile, but it is in our nature.
She has never left us; she will continue without us when we are dead and gone.
All the monuments in the world bow to her in worship or are crushed in submission to time and war.
She played gods and men alike.
She is both the catalyst and the conclusion.
Some marvel as the fires of her destruction dance reflected in their eyes; others weep.
To say that she is coming would imply that she has ever left.
How could we impermanent things ever hope to banish something so primordial.
She breeds hate, mistrust, and strife in those that capitulate; those that resist her only magnify her power.
She bore Hardship and Ruin, Quarrels and Disputes, Lies and Oaths, Anarchy and Starvation, Forgetfulness and Pain. Manslaughter and ****** were her giggling toddlers. War and Battle took after her brother, their uncle's favorites.
She brings inedible food that is coveted by all who encounter it.
She has bathed in the blood of civil wars, her most decadent vice.
She renders man's efforts futile, to fight or submit is destruction.
She will reduce the universe to an ever expanding hellscape of fire.
She is the secret joy of many.
Nothing will escape her.
She is everywhere.
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 1:24 PM UTC
I thought I was on my way home but who's to say I got the right directions;
Curious and afraid so I dissect myself like an insect,
Parts of me scattered across this city like windshield manslaughter at an intersection.
The sky wept with harsh cry and pained screech; the clouds evaded.
I could use more shade for ***** deals in shady places,
Dark corners and alley way sections where the shadows burst and cross the line to devour my body and run the worst parts of my mind.
Where did I go wrong? How am I not dead?
How did a silhouette become so mislead?
There's no salvaging anything. I rebuilt and in the end everything returned to being burned.
I'm alive in the furnace though my ashes have surfaced.
Or really I am dead and what you see is something darker has my body and with it always comes it's purpose.
Could it be I've been gone for a long time?
Why say sorry, when it's a waste of breathe,
Don't try to change the path, it's a waste of step,
My past always defeats me, an attribute that I regret.
We make the best with what we get.
We make the best with what we get.
What is it called when we go bad?
Not expired, because we're not dead.
But we're rotten to the core.
Should I write and play the chord,
or should I I leave and cut the cord
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 2:00 AM UTC
Poetry is art
it is beautiful
grabs the ***** with words
and refuses
to let go
from the moment the stanza
reaches your brain
you're hooked
like the first beer
the first line of *******
it takes the wheel
and drives you
to insanity
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 4:05 PM UTC
I've been walking for,
we've been walking for,
what feels like days.
And it looks to me,
looks like we,
ain't takin' a break.
The sand in the wind,
oh how it stings,
like a *****
I've been walking for,
we've been walking for,
what feels like days.
The sun, it dries,
my skin like,
a fuckin' raisin.
And I'm going blind,
from the sun shine,
in my eyes.
I need water,
but no, manslaughter,
is our first objective.
And I've been walking for,
we've been walking for,
what feels like days.
I've been walking for,
we've been walking for,
what feels like days.
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 11:06 PM UTC
In moonlight shadows, she awaits
As the air around her dissipates,
Pluming tendrils of smoke enfold,
Her body now numbed to hot or cold.
The silver disc moves one step to the left,
She eyes the sky, her feeling bereft.
He whispers from the lake, “where are you?
My all, my everything, you withdrew”.
Her footsteps hesitate once, then move,
Naked emotion she has to prove.
Immersed, submerged, underwater,
Once again, reliving the manslaughter.
And once more freed from the dreams,
Where she left him only hearing screams.
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 8:35 AM UTC
In need of escape, they fled for the ocean floor
he persuaded her, "I need you, take my hand"
They drew the curtains and locked the door
Discarded the rusty key on the rough sand
They waded through the forceful waves
That pushed them out, then pulled them in
And enrolled themselves as Queen Ocean's slaves
Commanded helplessly by her recurring din
Then strolling down the ocean bed
An imaginary staircase to an alter
With an imaginary priest where they would be wed
He knew her love for him would never falter
And that's how he knew he'd won
Even though he'd lost himself in the water
Because he had her now, the deed was done
All the while the waves just whispered; "love is manslaughter"
Jun 8, 2013
Jun 8, 2013 at 2:26 PM UTC
"Guilty"
That's what the gavel screams
Echoing on the steel bracelets
Bolted to my wrist
"Guilty"
Convicted of 32 counts of ******
403 counts of manslaughter and torture
Unanimous vote by the laughing jury
Eyes struck cold with the fear
A mass murderer before their eyes
"Guilty"
Solitary confinement for me
******* bolted, and chained
To four walls playing ghost in my ears
Whispering the verdict
"Guilty"
****** weapons found in my hands
Set fire to the bodies
So they couldn't laugh anymore
Played cat and mouse with their tongues
My scars aren't a joke
Yet I still hear the laughter
Driven mad enough to hear
"Guilty"
32 kids, 68 adults, 303 other voices
I had to silence
I couldn't take it
The laughter, paralyzing glares
Smiles embedded in ruby eyes
"Guilty"
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 10:29 AM UTC
Framed.
I surround myself with an abundance of its glorious aftermath.
A cheap thrill for the night.
Let a half hour soak in the wrath.
I've continued to overdose myself with an endless cycle of euphoria
a sinful, deadly deception-
a vindictive vice.
Where manslaughter may be the only token for temporary happiness.
Be hypnotized with me, no pressure
as I am eager to embrace a mouthful of its alluring poison
like candy,
sweet candy.
A marigo-round of dileberate madness.
I spin around;
it's the sensation that brings me back every **** time.
knowing I wont come back every time.
I'm addicted.
So very addicted,
atleast I can admit it.
It's the sweet taste of cotton mouth,
it's the beautiful realization I figured myself out.
Spin me.
Let the drug seep through my pores
and bless you all
Hold me.
Let your sensation be my only amusement for the night.
I crave it.
I wont let myself go through withdrawls.
I can't control its endless cycle of euphoria
After all,
my addiction is to be
chemically happy.
Feb 22, 2012
Feb 22, 2012 at 10:23 PM UTC
Slaughter with fangs that love to incise,
lust to ring and roar
plastic zips that smother too tighten,
feast on hindered breath takings.
Pull to gorge against their blessed soulless upbringings.
It's not terrifying,
not bloodless lucid heart beating,
steal the latest last of,
butcher and reel till the crazy flees in fear.
paint splatter smiles,
hang harlot blood stained baby childs.
It's long love lost lusting,
just a carousel killing ride,
a manslaughter ****** scene,
mask me a demon,
kiss me a rotting rose.
For fledgling sake hand me the last shotgun blow.
Breathe me a reason not to die.
Aug 28, 2011
Aug 28, 2011 at 12:27 AM UTC
The importance of new life so easily forgotten,
Common sense, family, friends hurriedly lost,
Never did he offer simple respect they deserved,
“…how conceited it was to think of just me,
This angel, now gone, I just..failed to swerve,
Too late, teasing my ego with stolen youth,
Selfish pleasure – my starter, sickly dessert,
My main course, served cold an’ breathless,
This image, this perfect life, this Innocent,
Head bowed, my remorse is too little, too late,
My daughter alone, tired of waiting, asleep,
A kind, faultless wife – unaware of the horror,
Hand-cuffed an’ charged with manslaughter,
My eyes forever tearful, I now see in my mind,
The grief of the mother in this shameful theft,
Haunting me through the past and the future,
The darkness I have left, the unknown space,
I am so sorry, I was drunk and driving too fast,
Numb in what I am for the childish careless fun,
I am a father now to have realised - I have taken,
I will never forget, for she will never be gone,
That I, John Cassidy, have caused this death…”
The remorseless will always be quiet, alone,
To their pain, their old acquaintance until an end,
Love lost, hurt forever loaned from the senseless.
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 11:55 AM UTC
She belonged to him, no other man,
So he said to her each day she left.
To sell the eggs and the dress she made,
To pull them from the line of the poor.
On the way to town each day she passed,
The rings of County Tipperary.
The ancient rings that live the wee folk,
Who dance in moonlight and trick us all.
That day she waited to see her kin,
But she left no gift to please the old.
So home she came with arms still heavy,
and a chest that weighed a cough so foul.
“My Bridget” as he knelt by her bed,
Holding her hand as it shook with cold.
In the crack of the flame voices he heard
To hang him from his grief with despair.
The news he heard was of his father
Whom died the evening he felt alone.
Mr Cleary swore and slammed his fist.
“Midnight tonight or Bridget is lost!”
The men in village knew the tale,
Of the wee folk who cursed Bridget.
The woman in the Cleary home bed,
Was an echo of the wife he loved.
They held her down and asked her, her name,
She screamed and growled but did not reply,
Three times they asked and still she refused.
So tight the grips they beat her to sleep.
The morning arrived, Bridget awoke,
To her husband who looked upon her.
His eyes full of loss and fear as-well,
“my Bridget?” he asked “are they gone now?”
She smiled and agreed, she was alone,
So the priest came to deliver mass.
Mr Cleary agreed and drank from the cup
But he knew that his wife was not home.
He asked her again, three more times; “Speak,
Your name to me now, are you my wife?”
Each time she replied “It is I, Yes.”
Michael still knew his wife was away.
That evening men from the town arrived
And took Bridget deep into the bog,
Where they bound her and lay her down flat,
As she screamed for her husband to help.
“It is I, It is me, Your sweet wife,
Believe me my husband I am here,
No faerie has seized my soul from me,
No witch has uttered a devil curse.”
Her mouth was covered and bound so tight
Her screams were made only with her eyes.
In front of the men, Michael asked her.
“Are you my wife? My Bridget Cleary?”
No voice or reply came from the girl.
Her body lay still in the bog land.
So onto a bed of wood she was placed,
And burned in the cold evening moon light.
The story was told through the village,
That Bridget had fled with another,
A man who bought all her eggs each week,
But not everyone believed this tale.
The priest of the village found Michael,
Praying blood, sweat and tears in the church.
He told him the fairies had taken,
The changeling they had placed there before.
The priest told the men of the Garda
That ****** was rife in this village.
That men had taken a sick women
And burned her to death in the bog land.
Michael was guilty of Manslaughter
No conviction of ****** was passed
For the people believed his story,
The woman who burned was not his wife
To this day the rings of Tipperary
Still grow foxglove and weeds in the cracks,
The Faerie mounds are feared like darkness
And steered clear of, by those who live near.
Even now it is heard in the school,
By the children who skip on the rope.
“Are you a witch, or are you a fairy,
Or are you the wife of Michael Cleary?”
Jun 27, 2018
Jun 27, 2018 at 4:19 PM UTC
Sometimes, I fear that the passing of time
will be the ruin of all that makes up of me.
I hope not to be the consequence of
destruction by distraction-
fading away within the fleeting of life.
Sometimes, I fear my
responsibilities becoming like a weapon
for involuntary manslaughter.
I do not want each day to erode my soul to dust.
All of what I am
becoming the ground beneath
conformity.
I do not want hazy eyes in a dazed filled life,
each step I take almost simultaneously.
I do not wish the world to warp
my individuality.
I want to devote to my own
ideal of integrality.
And remember all of the
persistent passions
that have coursed relentlessly
through my veins,
morphing all that's evolved to me.
Jan 28, 2021
Jan 28, 2021 at 8:52 PM UTC
am I not conforming yet?
am I finally an outcast
can you please let me out of whiteness
did I offend it too much to be accepted anymore
is my demand for humanity contagious
are you scared of it spreading yet
why are you still listening
to the voice in your mind that is reading?
confused
angry
desperate
you should have killed all the others
you should have been more strict
more brutal with your laws
the fees and fines should have been much much bigger
we should have only been 2 fifths of a vote
if whiteness wanted to succeed
whiteness should have been more violent with its punishment
more relentless
unforgiving with its shaping of humanity
It should have been more incestuous
whiteness should have kept its privates in its pants
if whiteness wanted too survive
it should have fought harder
Whiteness should have kept its language secret
It should have invested in privacy and security and insurance even more
if whiteness wanted to survive
but if whiteness wanted to dissipate and fail
its doing perfect
Otherwise whiteness would have blotted out the sun
whiteness would have made tanning cream illegal a long time ago
and the penalty would have been much harsher than voluntary manslaughter
if whiteness were to be able to take over
forever
whiteness needs to get over the fact that it is not real
to put a halt to its construction
and to stop making excuses that are similes to genocide
Jun 30, 2016
Jun 30, 2016 at 6:07 PM UTC
Feast on frenzy brawl brazened claw
and cartilage fluttered all about,
it’s but the silhouette of the human self.
****** as simple and pure,
bleeding to bludgeon breath,
ghastly horrors of driving metal steaks
into the sullen degrade of a humble man’s chest.
The sickly of emotional fluid and flaw
thieve God’s breath,
but to glutton against
the flagrant screams of innocence.
We hollow corpses scatter beneath nightly flesh,
hunting out merciless.
Tis a gamble of ticked finger and claw,
just the opening of our manslaughter ball.
Aug 28, 2011
Aug 28, 2011 at 12:08 AM UTC