Modernland has legalized murder, they roll these streets
Billyclubs in tow, those weak are taped and tortured
Throw'em a gun and a bullet grinning through glass
As those who suffer pull the trigger, bang
Darkness isn't evil, the real monsters are people
Art is rebellion, they want Armageddon, life isn't Christmas
They decide who gets presents, I'm number one
On the naughty list, then, some call it divine intervention
Others say entertainment, I say sacrilege to the manes
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-!?
His building plans as seen on zoom
Resemble an old Pharoah’s tomb
Though Epstein is dead
Jeffrey's king-sized bed
Makes a grand stage for Trump's ballroom
Summer of the Dragon
No one knew where they came from
Some say from above
Others say below
Doesn’t really matter
They were here
The eyes, like two glowing embers
That was the worst
The talons and scales failed in comparison
It was always the eyes
The swoosh of the wings
Snap of the tail soon followed
By the napalm
They destroyed it all
Burn it to the ground
Until there was nothing left but ash
Then left us here to die
No one knew where they came from
Some say from above
Others below
It really didn’t matter
They were here
In potted hills Finnish
Cauldrons run quips losing custard!
Vanquished serpents necking
Lounging cretons lavish
Tasking tisks
Mirroled bounce
Hinde bounding exiles
Worrisome kneels condensing bonnet?
Will and either knawlings
Coffered
Loave of Samson
Reason less below her faults
French horror?
Recalcitrant!
Enigma
He who has no name lies waiting in the echos
Of my mind waiting for slumber
He invades my dreams like a dog shaking a rat
Tormenting me until the dawn slips back into darkness
Daylight keeps this vampire at bay though I feel his
Presence following me in the shadow
Seldom a day goes by when I dont hear his call
Sometimes far sometimes near
As the sun starts to set I feel him begin to move
They say the body needs eight hours of sleep
I’ll settle for less
A croaking echo, dark and deep,
A princess shivers in her sleep.
She lost her golden ball of light,
To a monstrous, endless night.
The moon hangs, a violet stain,
As the bog begins to rain.
A frog, with skin of slimy green,
Leaps from a shadow, rarely seen.
"I'll find your ball," it rasps and sighs,
with golden flecks within its eyes.
But as it speaks, the sound turns dread,
A monstrous voice, not what it said.
Its body swells, a horrid sight,
Engulfing all the fading light.
The frog is gone, the monster's here,
And the princess screams in primal fear.
The violet sky starts to decay,
As the monster grins and starts to play.
The golden ball, a final gleam,
Sinks with the girl into the stream.
Surviving the waves of pain,
Loss of three children that she gained.
Flowing into a pit of despair.
Home burned.
Taken away.
Raped until her uterus faded one day.
Left starving on a lost shore.
No hope anymore.
Hair gone short except for a straggle or two.
Neatly braided with an old tin can.
Necklace found buried in the sand.
Ready to try for a new land.
Selling self for the money that's due.
Off on a boat with three hundred and two.
Everyone bailing until close to land.
Not surviving as water rushes in.
Sinking slowly.
Floating back.
To where she began.
I can't help but wonder if we could even fix it anymore.
I don't know if I could ever forget crying there on the floor.
And I can't help but feel that all our future has in store,
Is years, and years, and years of horror.
An ominous water tower
Stands tall in Starin Park
Barricaded by a spiked fence
Iron clads the stained-glass windows
A steel door bolted shut
What secrets lie within its walls?
On the night of a blood moon
Witches shrouded in crimson robes
Conducted a satanic ritual
To call forth a demon from hell.
The ceremony was a success, but at a cost.
Hellborn claws slew the High Witch.
The remaining members stood firm.
Combined their strength to subdue the creature.
Calling forth the spirits of nature,
The witches configured a tower
To confine the bloodthirsty beast
So none shall meet an unfortunate end.
They say on a full moon night,
You can hear otherworldly growls
Echoing throughout the tower
Rattling the bravest of souls
Who'd dare to venture forth
To the Witches Tower.
I am not certain sea
is always deep,
no-matter its depth --
As professed love is sometimes
only speech rehearsed, well prepped.
And the sun, though illustriously
shines, can be blind, victim of
self undulating light --
as all
stars, in time, blink out~ sliced from
the heavens by, the eternally appointed,
darkly shrouded, Ever-cleaving Scythe
of Night....
It returned at night,
with fangs out and mouth open.
A fierce need to feed,
camoflauged by a tame face.
Mind every empty mirror.
A bunch of entrails.
I like strawberry milk in a cute bottle.
I was one or many more of those things.
Empty as a shipping container.
A butternut squash which I only eat in the fall.
Only knowing fall things.
Fall hair, and breath.
Nothing will be endless again.
A bunch of entrails.
It’s not Halloween, I’m just myself in there.
Eyeballs and bones.
Should just be one pair of eyes, but it’s many.
I am a person who they found on the dock.
The shipping container had a trace of blood on it.
Not from a paper cut.
So they believed.
Who am I again?
Just someone who narrates.
Has more bones and eyes than they know of.
And yet, they think I’m many.
You can’t open a shipping container without a crowbar.
So they did.
They did it because they knew things.
They found out quickly.
Who I am.
I am the one who likes random things that are stuck like sticky notes.
Who I am.
Every suspect and family member explains.
Who I am.
Again.
The bloody stranger stank of rank grass and
Animal grime and strutted unnoticed on
Our threshold on a long, misty night.
Lightning, unaccompanied by rain,
Exposed his grisly image,
Comprehended quickly by the village griot,
A humepenthe with seeing eyes, though blind,
Who could smell danger even from long-dug holes of
Doss-houses from distant caverns.
A common, vile dictator is abroad tonight!
Pierced-ear Despot's Con
Eve O' dent'd Null-Lux-Stars
Judes' Counter-Strike Rage
_____
Notes:
When The River Fails
credit the stone
that shapes your name
When The Mountains Flee
stagger the gold
that drowns the sea
At Close
disembark as the dust
into dark
O' Chastened Earth
MAY YOUR COUNTER-STRIKE RAGE
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