Before I share this poem, I just want to say this. I wrote this out of PURE anger. As such, I am not happy with it. You may disagree and see something in it, and I hope you do. But I, personally, do not feel much oneness with this work.
Also, be **warned**. It is graphic in language and imagery.
Blood stained hands in expensive executive wear;
red shirts. They were once white, now red.
On their backs are skin-spun sacks
bundled full of body parts.
Oozing fluids indiscriminately
across the slippery exhibition centre floor.
Death is the currency here.
Trades are done with limbs and torsos.
Limousines fuelled with blood.
Smoking cigars made from
rend burnt flesh, rolled;
the stench unbearable
as they disrespectfully fellate
these smoking, rotten cocks.
These disgusting monsters,
their morals loosely hanging around their groin
as a pair of dishevelled, atrophied testis,
don’t need cock and balls.
They’ve got a bigger sack,
full of other people’s bodies.
Their dick ejaculates bullets
through a rifled bore.
Their own body means nothing.
They are not human.
Soulless vacuum ghasts
inhaling, ingesting, consuming.
They tear off their clothes in a fit
of onanistic, orgiastic death fucking;
Shooting holes in skulls
to have more orifices.
Fucking the innocent.
Fucking the guilty.
Fucking the poor.
Fucking the dead.
Fucking the world.
The future lies raped, defiled and sobbing.
Twisted Necrophile beasts contorting their
scarred and ugly faces in orgasmic ecstasy
at the thought of death’s bony hand
touching another child,
shooting hot-lead climactic fluids
into the hearts of all around.
As each tear and gash in human flesh
becomes just another cunt to get fucked.
Each bullet wound an exploitable hole.
Each severed, dangling limb
just a dildo to fuck some more.
When demons in hell have nightmares,
they dream of a world where self-aggrandising pricks
preach peace and civility to the world,
whilst marketing death on their doorstep.