Here we go.
Feast upon the hummingbird’s wing as you float into the air. Kill the bird with little thought and laugh without despair. View the world through mortal eyes and mock the cunning stew, of bricks and cleavers sharpened to do harm unto you. Trick-or-treat, at last defeat the scorn which hugged you close; and gag the mouth that raped you with the words it often spoke. Your freedom rings like mob cries spewed at sinless pearly gates. And you know better, the unraveling sweater yanked by endless weights.
Fuck your pretensious dislike of rhyme.
No beginning or middle, just an end. An end to the groping stares and unwanted fingering of my pages. I despise when you molest me so nonchalantly in the learning resource center. An end to painful dog-ears and filthy germs mixing themselves with my ink.
I want to slice your face off and use it to protect my binding.
What good is your brain?
Always told to not judge me by my you-know-what. I may not move or breathe, nor am I capable of these acts, but I can imagine them. The vomit of your rage is forever flushed onto me. And I suggest you say a prayer to your dead God as you listen, in case I ever am given the chance to personify myself.
Dear Santa,
For Hanukkah this year I’d like a bag of rainbow sequins to cut their stomachs from the inside. I want jawbreakers to lodge in the back of their throats, teasing their senses with sweet sticky goodness before suffocating on the irony of their own consumption. I want a new pair of tweezers, so that I may pluck every hair from their bodies one, by one, by one. I’d also like to roll them across a bed of shiny curling irons. That’d be quite nice.
Punch, stab, whip, gut, scorch, impale, rot, violate, bury, embarrass, demoralize, dehumanize, infect with inflection, worry, intimidate, maim, splinter, spell check, poison, implode, pierce, swallow, pecked-out eyeballs, castrate, strangle, club, boil chopped cadavers and kitten ashes with a rank hog bisque seasoned with maggots, stuff crab grass into your soiled cunt to feed your hungry fetus, fling, straddle, dominate, interrogate, rusty metal hooks to hang your tendons on, crash, smack, pinch, strangle, guzzle grain alcohol through the holes in your liver, fuck your children while you watch with your eyelids thumb-tacked to your forehead and drink a toast to happilyeveraftertheend whilst your cup runeth over with gastric mouthwash.
There was a clown in a mall food court who sat on a bench grinning his never-ending plastic smile and people passed him between trips to Banana Republic and Subway completely ignorant to the fact that he eats children. There is a trap door in the carousel and when it’s busy no one notices the vanishing of a single toddler as the blaring lights and contorted horse teeth spin around and around. Parents watch with their own eyes as their baby is slashed open and tasted.
“How delicious,” says the clown.
“That’s enough sweetie, mommy and daddy have to finish their shopping now,” says you.
Bone structure means nothing when you’re dead. Drink another Red Bull. I hope you choke on it. The Beginning. The climax. And no, that has nothing to do with an orgasm. Douchebag.
Spooning lovers seized in a pencil sketch. The curves of sheets and tangled limbs and whisps of breath on neck. Skin tight Calvin Kleins and a smoking gun. To fall in love with words. And you said it couldn't be done. Ignorant bitch. Did you know you talk too much? The most self-involved person that ever was. You're nothing like the artist. A Spartan.
Cliffhanger.
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