'Time' and 'Death' are the only axioms.
Things you cannot manipulate.
Together, they eventually destroy everything.
Then, breathe life into the ashes.
Forgotten concepts, even gods who don't bleed.
I smile in Annihilation's face.
Life is an abattoir hymnal written as a Jisei.
A poem that always ends with a question/mark.
The mortician finishes your storyline, not you.
Punctuation through confrontation with both.
My job is important, I bring closure.
And I create monsters to negate certain fates.
How dare society treat me like a freak...
Every single time I ask for coffin options...
Each time I ask for lipstick preference...
Everyone reacts how you'd expect...
Now, ask yourselves, why do I write splatterpunk?
Miss Leatherface masked with demons for the world
to face them, or get caught in the teeth of the abattoir psalm. Prove me wrong__
Skin peels back. Fingers branch.
Seeds sprout wings. Body art in hues of blue.
You burst into iridescent dragonflies.
Foxes grin. Ginsberg's Howl made of bark.
Fractal skies. A living mandala.
Jefferson Airplane's cryogenic supernova.
The ground goes liquid, a swirling tie-dye quicksand.
A harlequin paints the world magenta.
This ain't no picnic. This is the vortex.
Flying on a carpet of pure pandemonium.
Hurricane vortices of phosphorus green.
Insects crawl from beneath and consume your frame.
Every orifice, defiled and used like a subway.
Phallus-trains of centipedes pour from your ears, your mouth, your nose.
Eyeballs melt. Skin blisters to bursting boils. Spiders cover your shell.
You claw and roll, screaming, as a mahogany cigarette liquefies, revealing ME.
This never ends. The paradox begins.
Welcome to the Bosch Painting. My laughter, your shriek of agony.
Back to the beginning. My plaything.
Smooth as the vorpal descent.
MAKABRÉ MINUET-!?
I have often witnessed death
though not ever the last breath;
field mice frozen in a jar;
slaughtered lambs in abattoir,
dissected frogs in school labs,
cruel boiling of live crabs
for important luncheon meets.
Piglets torn from mother’s teats
roasted at a football game.
Hungry lions eat the lame
garden’s serpent kills the truth
mothers’s love that kills your youth;
little bug just stepped upon;
“don’t destroy my sweet salon.”
To embrace a death without;
that is just to be Boy Scout.
To embrace a death within;
to my father, was a sin.
the oppression
The town's sewer pipe ends in the middle of a fjord
a gray mass slowly dispersing forever into blue
water like a sin forgiven after Sunday's mass.
When the last sheep was brought into the abattoir
it didn't resist as the sheep had already died a
thousand times, a bullet from the slaughter- gun
a slit throat, its blood into a vessel and stirred
blood dumpling on Thursday.
Death was turned into a Sunday roast with mint sauce
A Palestinian youth, bare-chested, faced the enemy
a shot, several shots, he fell into the road-dust and
became a sixteen-year-old martyr.
sold my crux for poetic flux
to an immortal husk in a tux,
his musk was of the set dusk,
waft of an abattoir in the sun.
he ton of tone and run,
poetic stun gun and it's so fun,
coaxing to come as we begun,
this everyday smoke show pun.
all crossroads hex in texas,
misses of the vexes voodoo temptress,
dyslexic he continues his flex,
till I twist him like a pop - breaking his neck.
mex wicka wick a candle lit
to submit his payment with spirit -
definite light emits a dreamt cadence,
where his limbs go limp in menstruation.
lips stick press to succulent a test,
hollow nostril breath as lipstick vortices,
rousing muses coos in this faded faze
of alumni haze - as I maze his days away.
The stench of puerile self-aggrandizement wafts through the air, a noxious cloud of platitudes and pomp, as the pusillanimous pustules of pseudo-intellectualism congregate to lavish accolades upon one another. How... amusing. The notion that these self-absorbed aesthetes, ye armchair sybarites, consider themselves arbiters of taste and talent, is nothing short of grotesque. And yet, here it persists, leeches on the cadavers of real artistry, perpetuating a vicious cycle of backslapping mediocrity, as they vomit forth oozing saccharine, cliche-ridden tripe, and elevate it to the status of holy scripture. Quaint indeed. The stench of their ignominy is almost... palpable.
How does it feel to know that playing by the rules was your downfall, I said I would be the last poetess standing because I can do: abattoir hymns of crimson vortices shredding the children to rain sanguinary as viscera chunks hail from above. Sorry ai can’t touch me, it would freak out to even read that. I may not have won many contests, but oops. Hehe.
Esoteric enchantress mellifluously serenades
Abattoir hymn of threnody in this boudoir
Quintessential embodiment of thanatopsis
Quixotic dreamscape’s lachrymose fountain
Melody of scarlet puppetry in a masquerade
Grandiloquent gaiety phantasmagoric vitae
Twas daybreak as this bright morn I rose
Greeted at breakfast by my darling Rose
A brief time together as by seven I've left
Out to the garden, the street and then left
Along cobbled paths where the dogs bark
To work as the foreman, my order to bark
The abattoir workers tirelessly cut up the meat
Despite the condition, smiling at all they meet.
Chopping and cutting up every small piece
Awaiting a break for a rest and some peace.
A cup of water then back plucking the fowl
Some people can't hack the smell is so foul.
At six the work ends and the whistle is blew
We wash up our hands they are black and blue
Home via The Dragon for a jug of the best ale,
Men's medicine, a cure-all for what they all ail.
Back home to Rose, my drink she would pour
A simple life, you make the best if your poor
We huddle together watching the embers in the grate.
We make thanks for our lot, and what makes England great.
you put your silks and satins
in me, a darkened abattoir
I see your pain, a summer crisis
staring sometimes for minutes
it's a love hate relationship
it's a love hate hall of mirrors
lost in dirty bone catacombs
I wait for your return
I heard screams from those marked for a guillotine death
No compromises for their cries before taking a last breath
Words of repentance for dastardly crimes were bemoaned
Begging for mercy with fear and tears, curses were groaned
My blade is always kept whetted for those who regretted
and my cutthroat job is thought to be brutally inhumane
"Oh, please!" I wanted to shout at the louts who fretted,
"For only the briefest moment will I cause you any pain!"
In modern days I would be aptly labeled a "French Press."
Humorous, the thought, but I'd still create a bloody mess
Hence, never should I ever be used inside of an abattoir
Before I take a life, I always remember to say, "Au revoir."
I abhor the taste of blood in my mouth and on my teeth
Love to be cleaned before my blades are again in sheath
When my deadly decapitation chore is over and complete
heads I felled roll to lie supine at the executioner's feet
People then clear the scene, to flee from me, the guillotine
As if what they'd witnessed me do would wash them clean
Maybe it was the act of my beheading they were dreading
Hoping tomorrow it wouldn't be theirs that I'd be shredding
endless story
I have tried to tell a story of a rat that fell from the ceiling
It landed among drinkers in a café I ran,
Never had I seen a café emptying of people in two seconds
flat; the rat escaped too.
I also want to talk about the woman who had been sober
for ten years, a safe hand in soothing drunken men.
I also wanted to talk about the eccentric drinking law
allowing me to sell beer between five and ten o’clock
but the customers had to eat first. Usually, a sandwich
After that, they could drink as much as they wanted.
I will tell you about the rat plague when they pull down
The old abattoir, but I will leave it for now since I can’t
get the beginning right, I dislike, rats they are vermin
and I can hear one eating ink in the wastebasket.
the oppression
The town's sewer pipe ends in the middle of a fjord
a gray mass slowly dispersing forever into blue
water like a sin forgiven after Sunday's mass.
When the last sheep was bought into the abattoir
it didn't resist as the sheep had already died a
thousand times, a bullet from the slaughter- gun
a slit throat, its blood into a vessel and stirred
blood dumpling on Thursday.
Death was turned into a Sunday roast with mint sauce
A Palestinian youth, bare-chested, faced the enemy
a shot, several shots, he fell into the road-dust and
became a sixteen-year-old martyr.
distortions of grandeur and praise
infect me and make me your slave
tranquility is but a phase
the sullen, the meek, the depraved
like shying fleece on the barter
delusions of ardor misplaced
inject faith that enmity made
in truths, she lay undressed, defaced
the maiden, the sheep, the dismayed
lead me across the graying plains
she'll be the bliss beside the pain
i lie prostrate in surrender
herd the weak into paradise
the needle is my new shepherd
stain delirium onto their eyes
like naked lambs to the slaughter
these are the pastures
the fields of mourners
the grass of beggars
meadows of paupers
here grow the anguished
the mired, the famished
the livid brackish
the passive tarnished
lead me beneath your rusting staves
these veins ache for the blight you gave
watch the child playing on the altar
dancing methamphetamine shivers
acceptance
deliverance
i am your sheep
this world's an abattoir
i am your sheep
feed me;
this mind is yours
The buzzing ebbed and flowed as the flies lighted onto their decayed-fresh feast, all pallid and bloated.
Blackened and coated.
Piled morsels, festered and dead, lie together embraced, though cold.
Weighted like lead.
Survival is key in this age of darkness, which could mean to flee if one were not thoughtless.
Survival is key but connection is divine, life meaning nothing without me and mine.
A rebuilding of spirit, honor, and soul is the cornerstone against the spreading of mold in this abattoir transmuted world.
Be bold, be strong, be you.
Decide what in this life deserves YOU.
It's summer, and sunlight's syrup pours sweet into afternoon.
We've come to the bungalow's cemetery
to pick over bones of bygone days;
touch time's tender skin, lay flowers on childhood's grave.
The lodge is razed to the ground. We raise
our eyes to sky and take each big breath of blue.
Sharp lemon-light cuts through
the detritus of our days; the oaks once cloaked in dark.
The knotweed nooses and dreamlike domes of fly agaric
have all been cleared; the forest sentinels' leafless limbs
discarded - an abattoir of strangeness, sawdust-strewn.
But all dismemberment is a clearing of sorts.
The echoes of emptiness eavesdrop
on each reminiscence, as we forage for a few last remnants:
blue paisley swirls of 70s tiles,
red bricks from an 80s fireplace.
A yearning rises suddenly, slick sick-sour in my throat...
and yet, it feels cathartic, this purging of the past;
this merging of our then and now,
this blending of bitter and sweet.
23 February 2023
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