Murder minded, Stomach turned into A cemetery, Intestinal tract is Where they’re all Fucking buried, The mere thought of Giving it up, to you, Seems so fucking scary!
Your appetite is Built upon genocide, Lacking any discipline; just Consume whether it’s grilled or fried, Not brave to consider the families Rotting away inside of your gut, And you scowl at this mention, Too neck-deep in the mud to Give a fuck!
Walking graveyard Sustained by death, To live you must steal All of their breaths, How you salivate at the Blood on your plate, More and more is all you crave, Needing constant murder to satiate!
Don’t preach shit to me About liberty, Yammering about oppression When you demand that They shouldn’t be free, I don’t wish to hear it, Excuse after excuse, Championing control, Perpetuator of woe, Enjoying the abuse!
Antlers covered in the blood of another Who thought they could just slaughter In this holy place the beast and their own Have always known to be home, Entrails decorating sharpened bone like a crown, Hooves trudging through the blood That drips upon the ground, Eager to bring back another trophy So it could be mounted on the wall, But now their insides are mounted Upon a cervid’s head, the would-be killer forced to crawl…
Teeth clasp around the throat, On the blood, the bastard chokes, Several pairs of jaws from the pack Dismembering while the trespasser’s on their back Claws digging through the chest As the fucker’s laid to rest, Spilling guts while they eat, Life’s liquid leaves the body and slowly depletes, Dirt stained red, A potential killer dead, Jugular is leaking, Blood junkie no longer fiending…
Beaks peck at the sockets Of a scumbag with shells Nestled in their pockets, Slumped up against a trunk With the roots growing ‘round their ankles, Body long since having long been slumped, Food for the little ones that nibble at the flesh, Delighted to have food so fresh, Flora and fauna nourished by the dripping crimson, Having foiled another scumbag’s mission, Branches and bark having made their incisions, And those who don’t partake Gaze on appreciatively, for this specimen that tried to Walk among them was never, to them, ever great…
You say that the rambunctiousness And discord is little else but Pure, jumbled mania, carnage Without rhyme nor reason, thus Violent; these are all true, yet it Is the meaning of freedom, of being Unchained, living like wolves Rather than automatons…
Declare, you do, that the opposite, That foul imposition of control, Of symmetry, understandability, Congruency, sensibility, is the Real way of things, but outside of the False constructs, I find this idea to Be sorely lacking in any Validity at all…
Pipedreams are required to even gain a Mere sliver of a chance of fulfilling the End goal of this inane desire, this utopian Need for stability, boring and dull stagnation…
Outside of the idiocy of charlatans and frauds, An individual can gaze all around and find Zero trace of its alleged existence, for outsiders Balk at the idea of being steamrolled over for convenience…
Omnipotent, omniscient, Stretching as far as thy eyes Can see.
Everywhere and nowhere.
From whence hath it descended?
Out of what depths, did it crawl?
The formless, somehow manifested In the guise of a form. Ceaselessly gnawing, A mouth that goes for light years, Monstrous and yawning. Pray tell, What came first? The hate which spawned it, Or that it manifested out of its endless scorn?
Such answers, are lost to us.
Mysteries of a kind man Was not meant to know.
Unless he craved his utter ruin.
And thus, the folly Of man. Craving Even what is Detrimental to his existence.
Lacking in care and foresight, Blissfully unaware there would be Opportunistic horrors ready, Salivating at the opening of The floodgate, Welcoming whatever Comes through with open Arms.
Man, o’, man, Arrogant and idiotic, You unknowingly opened thy wrists, Holding it up eagerly For thirsty mouths, Presenting thy blood, precious Liquid spilling down their throats.
You let it enter; let go of your hope…
It walks amidst us, Stalking, always in the shadows, Peering from the corners Of our vision. The blurred outer regions Where reality and fantasy Start to meld together into an unrecognizable mess.
That sound you heard…
Was it the wind?
You tell yourself it is, And yet, you’re not so sure…
Hairs stand up Along thy spine. Uncertainty pervades your mind, Feeling uncountable eyes staring. The gaze refuses to avert. It makes you Whimper and whine.
Enchanted whispers caress the outer Recesses of your ears.
A wide, mad grin promises Endless delights (To itself), Whilst the uncanny sight Confirms your worst fears.
Still, standing, waiting…
Yet, there is a less Nefarious Aspect of it.
More shadowy than when It stays hidden away, cloaked in a Shroud of pitch black, Observing as we rush Eagerly to our doom.
Dressed so dapper, Seeming to be the type That chomps thick cigars And rents out struggling flappers, Having made a home Of his fancy new roller, Debauchery behind closed doors, Smiles and kind words For the ignorant public all over.
Did I say less nefarious?
A charming grin, Coupled with a Deranged look In his eyes. Hear him Whisper the words you want To hear as the world Slowly dies. Surely, he shall Reward thou, graciously, With what thy asked for, In all manner of exactness. Of course, Costing a fair price. Little do we Realize how expensive it is, And it becomes too late; we must Now roll the dice.
Innocuous at first, But then the whole Thing becomes boring, So he starts to…spice things up.
Can’t help but seek amusement from the Primitive apes squabbling beneath his gaze.
For you see, the world is his altar.
And he is the idol that shall be praised for all time.
Yes, their god, their…savior.
More and more insane he starts to become.
He’s at the helm now, oh yes, But he’s not intending to Pilot the train responsibly Along its course.
Nay, his desire is to crash it, Then watch it burn away whatever was left.
Brother against brother, Son against father, Daughter against mother.
Loud bangs ring out in the night Out of the barrels of firearms, Yells erupt from throats, Frigid steel piercing warm flesh, Wrists and throats ripped wide open So that walls may be painted a decrepit crimson color, Lines of sight falling Upon what should’ve never Been bared witness to, thus Responsible untold amounts Of synapses breaking, Manic laughter bursting out in Erratic, unnerving bursts, causing witnesses To gaze in horror, Canines and molars sinking into the Skin of their neighbors, friends, and family, Relishing in the taste of the most Forbidden of delicacies, and In the background, there are Those overtaken by Perverse desires and strange lusts, Captained by twisted souls Stuck within rotten bodies, Rutting against whatever and whoever Happens to be available, grunts and Growls of a most inhuman variety Leaving their lips.
There he is, standing there, With that same wicked grin, Sporting that unmistakable gleam In his void-like eyes.
Hadn’t took any effort at all.
For something like him, it was…child’s play.
Smiling as he thought of his all-encompassing, blind-idiot father.
Wouldn’t be the first time, nor the last.
Look at it; so wonderful.
Quite pleased by the sight of gore Messily strewn all about.
Price, price, he kept mentioning that word.
Continuously mentioning that it’d get higher, That the toll would increase.
Kooky, they must’ve Perceived his warnings to Be, craving their wants More and more.
Such passionate givers they were.
Gave everything, Even…
No matter; their blood, their souls, Yes, they’d all be his in the end…
Pieces of a decorative nature for this altar of his…
Alas, the seeds of decay and ruin have been planted.
Well, you ever look into, I don’t know, the eyes of someone, and just…see no light in there? The emotions they’re supposedly conveying not quite reaching those so-called “windows to the soul?” Their face seemingly saying this and that, portraying this and that, but…their eyes don’t? You’ve met these people before, and your intuition tells you there’s something off about them. You don’t know what. All you know is that they are not…right. Some of them are the most famous, or infamous, people to have ever existed. Some, you may know. Or have known.
That’s what I mean when I say dead flesh walking.
They’re like machines. Unfeeling. No warmth to be found in them. Everything that has a soul, everything that can genuinely be considered “alive”, has that…thing. It’s why cadavers are cold. The essence is gone. These, however, imitate those who are alive. Perhaps too well. But they have this…icy aura. It’s hard to explain. They’re cold in spirit. When caught alone, anyway. No longer burdened with having to keep the mask on. Their heart “pumps kool-aid”, so to speak. There’s no blood in them. They’re mechanical. And they’re a distinctly human phenomenon.
I would call them a “mechanical animal”, but I’d rather not associate myself with the horrendous garbage produced by one Brian Warner.
A rather angry fellow with a comically large mustache said, “those who cannot give anything away cannot feel anything either”.
What can these types give? If they are even capable of such a thing at all. Machines are wholly concerned with themselves. Not even their fellow machines. They won’t give anything unless they take first. They’re truly selfish and gluttonous. And they take far, far more than they are capable of giving. And their giving is finite, while those who are alive, they can give until the great architect says it’s time for them to return to the Ether. And even after that, it can still keep giving. Because energy doesn’t die. It just changes form.
These…well, they don’t have energy. They’re full of…nothing. All that is there is a pitch black void. A dark abyss. Where it is just zero. No hate, no love, no desire, no rejection, no fear, no bravery. Just…nothing.