#0137 - "...a sinful aesthetic..."

Cerberus suggests a sinful aesthetic:
salacious suggestions
amid incinerative incitations,
screaming "Anarchy!" in shallow-minded tones.

Oh, the frothing fiends that our forefathers feared:
they've emerged from the shadows
and dropped their masks
and now eagerly rush
towards devious tasks.

Bullets let fly:
      more small, bloodied hands
      lay still on the pavement.
Grand masses of currency
      fuel isolation
      and fuel the insurgency.
And as growing pains are injected
into our weakening lifeblood,
we take on more willingly
our addiction to anger:
an anarchic scream to drown out
      the pained scream.

All tortures end
      in acquittal
      or death.
And the decision draws near
      as to which end we'll get.

#0044 - "Drizzle, drizzle, little weasel;"

Drizzle, drizzle, little weasel;
Let your tears fall to the carpet.
Trick me once, you’ll be forgiven.
Trick me twice, and you’re a weasel.

Laughter comes to you as sadness:
Fake and underpinned by cunning.
Tears and laughter that you offer
Only search for thoughtless pity.

By your tricks I’ve been deceived, but
I won’t in your presence falter
Once again, for what you’ve done has
Left its mark upon my conscience.

Thanks to you my trust has faltered:
I no longer wish to be a
Punching bag for honeyed parlance.
Drizzle, weasel: I’ll ignore you.

#0008 - "Your grin extends from ear to ear"

Your grin extends from ear to ear,
A selfish rat, a sly, striped cat.
You wear a medal and a badge,
Where one says "faith" and one says "trust."

But I can see that it's an act -
You spew your words, but I'm no fool;
With questions asked, you make no sound,
Pretending what I say is moot.

An open book is what you are,
And I can see your missing page;
I don't know what exactly's gone,
But I can see the torn, ripped frays.

#0001 - "Sledgehammers shatter marble floors"

Sledgehammers shatter marble floors.
The house is on fire,
and yet you can’t resist the urge to come inside and decimate it even more,
because you can’t wait!

You can’t hold your impatience,
You can’t hold your anticipation,
to watch the structure fall apart,
to watch the foundation crack apart,
to watch the doors slam, but not on their hinges but onto the floor,
to let the windows let in fresh air but not because they’re open but because their glass is shattered and on the floor.

You look outside through the hole in the wall that you left behind and you see the verdure:
the trees are colored orange but it’s not Autumn,
the flowers colored red but it’s not spring;
the colors that surround you are the colors of your shallow, rancorous anger and pain.
That which you’ve now expressed, fervent but blind.

And in ten minutes you’ll be finished, and you’ll leave without a second thought or glance behind.
And in ten hours you’ll be happy.
But in ten days you will look in the mirror and see that you’re contrite,
and in ten weeks I don’t know if you’ll be able to keep from your neck the knife;

the knife that lays on your bed,
bloodied red.
Bloodied red from the enemies you created in your head;
the enemies that are no more real
than the hatred that you feel for those that hold you dear.