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…
Does it make you feel Like a man? To know by your Hands, a disadvantaged Creature dies? Does it Make you hard, you fucking Scumbag, that you got to show This miracle of creation how much, By you, it is despised? I bet you Were aroused as you stared coldly Into its frightened eyes.
Walk among us, you get to, without Any consequence. Taking you out with Shotgun justice, that would be deemed Terroristic dissidence. But fuck it, If that’s what it takes, then it is You that’ll be slain. Day by day, your Numbers will drop; their deaths shall not Have been in vain. Upon those racks you’ll be Placed, and you’ll get your own Doses of pain. Let’s see how you will Like to have been driven completely insane.
Grab you by your legs, I’d like to do. Slam you into Pavement over and over again Until you’re black, dead, and blue. You’re one of the dregs, And hope someone Someday fucking kills you. Psychopathic Monster, I hope your contaminated Innards are twisted and construed.
No love in your heart, Just possessed by only hate.
Boy, oh boy, I bet, to you, It feels so fucking great.
Do you think of doing The same to your Wife and kids? Nay, I don’t Imagine you think Of doing it, but actually Act, bashing them against the Hard surface when you’re pissed.
Pray and hope, I do, that no one Would ever wish to mate with a Machine such as yourself. May chains Bound you ever so tightly as armies Of wicked things drag you off Right into Hell. Where you must Abandon and all hope, and every time You die, once again, you must Face the goddamn rope.
Can you feel?
Not a chance; I hope your skin Is slowly peeled.
And it still wouldn’t be enough For all the babies’ lives you steal.
The families you butcher and maim, Because to you, it’s just a sick, demented game.
Once you started, your feat was forever sealed.
Violently stop their beating hearts, And let the beatings start.
Dig into their chest, tear open their Ribcage, and make sure they’re torn apart.
“There is a practice in the meat industry. PAC, it is called. Which stands for…pound against concrete. You may ask yourself, with uncertainty and terror welling up in your heart: what does “pound against concrete” entail, exactly? To pound against concrete means to take a pig that isn’t viable for consumption by the masses (the fucking masses…), typically a baby, a piglet…grab it by its hind legs, like some kind of metal chain, and whack it against the cold, hard ground repeatedly. Over and over. Until it is dead.
Now, I don’t know about you…but these don’t sound like beings that are alive, to me. Nay, these sound like what I’ve once referred to as…dead flesh walking. “Dead flesh walking” are those bastards who have no soul. Their blood is just liquid ice in their veins, and their hearts do not beat. Matter of a fact, if you were to cut them open (which you absolutely should…), they might not even possess a heart. Famous examples include Ted Bundy, Jeffrey Dahmer, Ed Kemper, Gary Ridgeway, Richard Ramirez, John Wayne Gacy, and many others. What did they all have in common? A distinct knack for the bludgeoning, burning, dissection, beating, torturing, psychologically tormenting, and general murdering…of animals. Of course, those who practice the sadistic art of pounding little piggies against concrete are not regarded as serial killers, or, at least, adjacent to them. Why’s that? Because it serves an economic function. It feeds the ever-gluttonous population of human scum that has overfilled planet Earth. It’s useful, it’s utilitarian. I bet many consider them heroes. Probably revered in their local communities.
I bet they get off on it. I bet it makes them absolutely tickled, these pieces of shit. I bet they can’t wait to tell their fucking family and friends. Hell, I bet it isn’t just pigs they do it to. Why do you think they get so good at it? It starts with critters…and then next thing you know, kids go missing. Entrails drag out, with the evidence of unspeakable acts having been committed against them.
A part of me…a large part of me…would like to, in the name of those poor bovids, get some revenge. Place their teeth against the nearest street curb. Like that infamous scene in the movie American History X, where Derek Vineyard loses his shit, shortly before going to prison. Pound their skulls against concrete with the heel of my boot.
The law has always protected those who least deserve it.
So, I’ll end this with a quote from an Irish playwright I greatly admire…
Whilst we, the conventional…were wasting our time on education, agitation, and organization, some independent genius has taken the matter in hand…”
A World In Flames 