Best Entrails Poems
by Michaelw1two
the dust slowly clears
sirens wail, the wounded crawl
from the burning street
May 2013
Only a few succeed
Countless fail
Choking on bills
Dreams that don’t sail
Foreclosure of fortune
Liquidated entrails
Empty homes
Lives for sale
You stand at your front door. Looking down, you see horror. You freeze in that spot
as from under the door, comes the bloody seepage of carnage.
It pools around you. As you push open the door and walk in, it makes a sickening
squishing and suction sound. The gore seeps into your sandals.
You know that you shouldn't, but fear also rules curiosity. You walk further into the
room. Afraid that something is going to attack.
As you step through the room, you here an odd *pop* . You gaze down at your feet.
There oozing over your toes, is the remnants of an eye.
Your throat starts to burn, as the bile rises up. Your eyes lose focus. You faint and
slink to the floor. You lay cuddled in the blood.
Upon your waking, you find yourself soaked in the blood. It is gelled in your hair.
When you can finally stand, bits of raw flesh cling to your clothes and cold skin.
There before you are your freshly painted walls. Covered in...someone. It is then that
you notice that you front door is now shut...and locked.
All you can think of, is the plumber that you had called in to fix you leaking kitchen
faucet. Oh no! Is that a pipe wrench?
A noise from behind, has you quickly spinning around. You see a shadow move. It
slinks in to the kitchen. You give chase. Stepping on entrails.
You had dreaded this. You knew it would happen again. There is no way to stop it.
There, like the last time, on the kitchen floor is Diablo, your cat. Daintily licking it's
paws. Looking very satisfied with himself.
You walk towards your little demon of a cat. It stares back at you with eyes, green as
jade. You stand there, not knowing what to say or do.
As Diablo looks and says......
"Next time, order Chinese, O.K."
Ahhhh, I hope I scared you a bit. This is my Halloween offering for Oct. 5th
Bwwwaaaaahahahaha
Lakes lie limpid imponderable,
glistening and glassy.
Looking like kites hanging
suspended in the sky,
towing streams as shimmering tails,
wriggling in the wind.
Lakes and streams are inseparable,
codependent, bedfellows,
each alike each other,
with wet bed bottoms
and wet watery entrails.
Change vomited dark entrails
Of the bald vulture on my clan;
We were buried,
One after the other,
In the belly of the village stream,
And pulled out
Almost immediately
To choruses that had no place
When waist dance shared peace
From the full moon;
We have brayed and prayed
In the names of strange ancestors
Printed in a book of curses, blessings,
And chronicles of their blessed exodus
But we have been sinking
Down the understream
Among the half dead and the forgotten;
We reek of bile throws
From a turn in history
When our men were led from line
By yellow ants
Thus change has treated
MY clan this badly.
Apple pie and fudge galore.
On Halloween I opened the door.
Just someone in a ghost costume.
And a witch with a broom.
Cars outside are covered in rust.
I always leave out the best pie crust.
For him to eat.
He needs a treat.
He needs a treat better than sugar and flour.
So I baked for an hour.
Made some concoction.
Which he takes with no reaction.
No inflection.
No reaction.
Just fireflies flying around.
As he cleans without a sound.
Washing the blood away.
As well as the baking tray.
He trusts anyone who will give him food.
He’s sometimes in a bad mood.
Then he eats the flies, filled with old flesh.
He knows that no one will confess.
That they watched him.
Transform from within.
Apple pie and fudge galore.
Cleaning up is quite a chore.
Once you’ve baked the best pie around.
There’s sure to be a mess on the ground.
The organs and blood.
Pretending it’s just mud.
That’s how the cycle goes.
When he smells it with his nose.
When you use enough sugar and flour combined.
You can cook the body up for no one to find.
Then you just need a supernatural being.
So no one will believe what they are seeing.
I live trapped in a basket of predators,
their skulls crammed with futile idleness.
They celebrate misery like a morbid feast,
with the suicidal arrogance of heirs to nothingness.
The flames of humanity have burned away
in the abyss of their barren souls.
They worship the anarchy of weapons,
I see nothing but fields of ruins.
Their battles are the masquerades of capital,
poverty spreads across the Earth like a plague,
and the closeness of deprivation becomes a nightmare.
I spit upon their rotten idols,
those false sanctities with profaned orifices.
I have piled up sins to taste the ecstasy of raw freedom.
Born from the wounded entrails of the Third World,
I refuse to bow before the putrefaction of consumerism.
Free from the origin, yet prisoner of a banana republic
delivered to the savage plunder of predatory empires.
I fight my demons in the trenches of the mind
to adorn my reality with fleeting mirages of this convulsive world.
They consign me to the dungeons of their alienation,
but I rise, insurgent against their servitude.