Ultra Silence

Only ever through a window, have I killed.
I’ve marched through halls making machine gun splatter art.
Crunched skulls underneath thickset leather boots.
Seen the split seconds of horror warp a persons face.
I’ve gone on mad blood frenzies sparked by rage.
Only ever through the gauze of space, have I killed.
Others breach the void.
Make their choice.
Blood boil.
If the unconscious had physicality,
Then we’d all be guilty.
A thought is a spark.
An act is a bang.

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Recycled

Shot in a field. Strangled in a basement. Starved in a hut.

A sheet of paper reports news.

Stabbed in a store. Burnt in a fire. Gassed in a chamber.

Another sheet is added to the pile of news.

Hit in a home. Raped in a bed. Dumped in a lake.

Stacks of paper report news.

Shot in a field. Strangled in a basement. Starved in a hut.

The paper is too heavy to hold.

Stabbed in a store. Burnt in a fire. Gassed in a chamber.

There is no room to store it.

Hit in a home. Raped in a bed. Dumped in a lake.

It will have to be shredded.

Me and I.

Why is it easier to dress other wounds than our own?

Why is it easier to look at other people than the mirror?

Why do we preach love but hold none for ourselves?

It’s just the two of us in here.

I’m the mind and you’re the body.

We are bound to each other for life but we couldn’t be more further apart.

O Where Is My Feast?

O where is my feast?

 Where are my pitchers of wines

Being generously drunk by

Intellectuals and swines?

Where are my bards from far off lands,

And my servants

Awaiting my spit flying commands?

 O where is my feast?

 I grow tried of the roaches

That squirm in my bed,

And the terrible thoughts

That lie in my head.

The cracks in my hands.

The pain in my neck.

The constant demands,

And lack of respect.

 O Where is my feast?