Paradox
These violent delights all meet violent ends
Surface too quickly, and you get the bends
Glutinous portions of all you can eat
Bitter reminder you thought was so sweet
Error, implosive; mistake number ten
Still you repeat it and do it again
Merry and jolly, unseen by the task
Worn to keep covered the darkness you mask
Laughter will merely just cover the tears
Shed over losing, the greatest of fears
Revelries squandered, good taste and good will
Partying parlor; events than can kill
Taste of the yolk sack; the embryo womb
Rotten and listless, the fetus's tomb
Rock and a hard place; the fall from up high
Living like eagles but humans can't fly
Tripping on falsehoods, the wound never mends
These violent delights all meet violent ends
Violent Delights
Boiling vortex
of intoxicated pleasures
inhabits the darkness
where she lies still.
Whipped alabaster skin and
raw searching lips,
eyes blurred with teary tint,
heartless moon blinding her -
violation of sexuality.
She begs not to be broken
as I stamp hollow earth.
Milk of my iniquity
runs down her cheeks,
words like rocks
batter her self esteem.
Bloodied handprints
mark my territory as
angry passion unfolds
in sucking ocean swirl,
soul branded to her pith
as I enter my arena of lust -
dipping my feet and testing
the water as rain drenches
her water-marked skin.
Heavy music lurks
in shadows of her Hell.
My erotic fantasy
continues to swell.
I see her face
masking destruction
of the buried dead,
piles of crushed throats
scream mournfully
at black sky.
My violent delights
beget violent ends
forcing me to glimpse
the message I send.
Once called you friend
These violent delights have violent ends
And to think we once were friends
Bonded by pain, cemented with love
But as soon as push came to shove
You shed far too few tears
At the end of the friend
You had known for years
At sword-point you chose to speak
I would never have thought
You could be so weak
You spilled without a second-thought
You didn't keep quiet as you were taught
A sheep in a wolf's skin
I'm ashamed to have
Once called you kin
These violent delights have violent ends
And to think we once were friends.
6 o’clock news
My son is a good man. My son is the spectacled, gawkish apple of his preschool toddlers' eyes, the champion of homemade brownies and frosted holiday shortbreads at PTA meetings, the bringer of band-aids and anti-bacterial spray, extra crackers and juice boxes, tissues and shoulders to cry on. My son is the well-spoken, well-liked leader of his less child-oriented peers, miraculously playing the roles of the smart and the funny and the dashing one all at once, and he is notorious among the giggling fourth and fifth graders for his famously dimpled, toothy grin. My son is popular among even the younger mothers -- single or not -- for his benevolent, seemingly sincere nature, his kind, soothing words, and his perfect, perfect smile.
Three cranial fractures. Fourteen stab wounds. I can only wonder why his smile was plastered over the grisly details of the end of the missing child.
Last Day
I never thought it'd end this way
I've been led astray
I was once a predator
Now I'm the prey
I would stalk pretty young things
I'd watch . Waiting .
When they weren't suspecting I would strike
I'd cut their throats with one slice of my knife .
That's not all I would do .
I'd make those girls mine .
Time after time .
They were so pretty with their dead eyes and lips blue
But those days are over .
I'm locked in a cell
I'm the victim now .
Oh , how the other animals make me pay.
Tomorrow will be my last day on this earth.
They'll strap me to a chair and fry my brain for all it's worth.
These violent delights have violent ends.
Don’t Hit On Twenty
These violent delights have violent ends... the culmination of carnage
trends higher than Kardashians.
Yet nothing can finish before it begins,
and chaotic conclusions derive from illusions of sins.
Starts by supplies supplied rely on swapping dope for dolla bills.
Three times delinquent determine when brain blood spills.
The booming lightening strikes, following a flash of thunder.
Survival on the streets derive dealers to gunners.
Frequent Late Fines,
debts due don't dismiss in any event, done doubled.
Despite dope deviants disappear dodging trouble.
Deliver digits by dawn! Or your life turns to rubble.
Delinquency's frequency pop-pop-pops his own bubble.
Violence Ends In Rough Times,
cuz' thrice threatened is enough. Time limits terminated turn torrential teary eyes to puff.
Dared to distinguish, now mere mirrored words not enough.
Dealt a King with his Jack, but greed made him bust.
Now the King's cash is ash and the Joker's life is dust.
These Violent Delights Ought Have Violent Ends
If you make a man who thinks he is a man, who you speak to as a man,
Who you then refuse to treat like a man, and will not truly call a man,
Why take surprise when your caged creation acts unlike men do?
When the thing begins to gnaw back like the beast you think him be,
Like the core of his code has been exposed for his own two eyes to see,
Why take such surprise when your beast boy fights back?
He acts only in the ways you say he will,
Fights only in the ways you say he will,
He is trapped within the cage you made for him,
And then you blame him too, for his own madness.
You blame the prisoner for your wardening of him.
You blame the prisoner and have rightfully imprisoned yourself.
Cosmic Chaos
I dab my pen in the ink well of blood.
It drips and sizzles on the parchment paper.
A body lays beneath my feet as I write.
The bloody, blue and black body of someone's wife.
Blood drools from her mouth, and it makes a puddle on the floor.
...I once had a wife.
I shall have her again.
The faraway, still memories of my matrimony and bliss enter my disheveled mind.
It keeps me in the present, aware of my purpose.
If I don't regain it, I will go insane.
She was a moment of peace in the cosmic chaos of life. She is clarity.
I write in my victim's blood to achieve something considered impossible.
'I have taken up your deal, the one you've visited upon me in those demented dreams. I have done the deed. I have traded this poor soul for my lovely Cara. Now release her, Hades.'
I see a response; it's as if the words appear on their own. They are in blood as well.
'Your penance is not done. You must become my servant and guide misguided souls to the ferryman. Before you ask why, they escape him because he must stay at the river; they run astray, far away from the path. They run amok.'
My response is swift
'That is not our deal. You said I must find a soul to replace Cara's spot in the Underworld. I have. I have killed a woman, evidenced by this correspondence written with blood, as you've instructed.'
I wait for a blood-soaked reply. The words come slowly, one by one. They stab me with dread.
'I lied to you. I needed you to kill to stain your soul; be willing to do anything to save her so that you can become my Grim Reaper, my servant. Cara will live if you become my Reaper, or Cara can die and you will be haunted by the voices, the ghostly images of the woman you murdered on a daily basis. It is not pleasant. It is like a Wraith, stalking you in all hours of the day.'
A grisly choice.
This is what I get for trusting Death, a big heavy foreboding mass lacking empathy.
...A life without Cara, but she would live on.
I commit to memory the color in her cheeks, the excitement in her voice and eyes, and the decision is made.
I realize my mistake. I realize that I was tricked. I realize that no matter what I did, I was never going to see her again, but at least she can live on, bringing her brand of peace to the world. Her pocket of calm and reassurance.
'I accept.'
I hear a splash, and then I see it.
A hand, coming from the puddle of blood on the floor.
It is grey and chafed.
It reaches for me, grabs me; I fall through the blood.
I am covered in the blood before I stand at the entrance of the Underworld. And I feel it, sense it, know it even; Cara is in the land of the living, a soul yet to be claimed.
Violent ends
These violent delights
Have violent ends
Blood calls to blood
It knows no friend
It spreads like fire
Every thought it devours
Until in the end
It knows no bounds
These violent delights
With their violent ends
Seduce our mind
Appeal to our primal selves
Just instinct,no logic
Just red,no clear head
It brings just destruction
A cycle with no end.
We know we should stop
But in truth we can't
Violence is addictive
And we like the pain
We lie for it
We beg for it
We even pay
We are now its slaves
We can't quit the game
You see pain is real
In a world full of fakes
This is its appeal
And all that it takes.
The play
I smiled, I brought them in, I played the game of cat and mouse only expect this was a game that involved instead life and death. I stood admits all the other fakers waiting for my next prey, my victim. Mama always told me that"Violent delights have violent ends" but my mama did not know the feeling. The surge of blood and excitement, the power, the wealth of strength. I played not to kill but to be delighted. I lived on the edge not afraid of this violent end. I may be called sadistic but what that the kids all say today?Y.O.L.O? Yes indeed you only live once.