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Robert Charles Linford
Inspector
Username: Robert
Post Number: 198
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Thursday, May 29, 2003 - 5:58 pm: | 
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AP, I read that once and then had to go away and have a smoke before reading it again, it was so overpowering! I've read it several more times, and I'm still unpacking it (and will be for a while to come). Superb, mind-bending stuff. Phew!
If that was a Spanish brandy job, maybe I should be putting more than a digestive in my tea. Wonderful!
Robert |
Robert Charles Linford
Inspector
Username: Robert
Post Number: 202
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Friday, May 30, 2003 - 8:13 am: |
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Hi AP
I’ve never deliberately watched this programme but it’s like the sun - I’m aware of it even if I don’t look at it.
HOUSE OF HORROR
The story that you are about to hear,
I hope won’t make you grouse.
It’s the story of something remarkably queer :
The Big Brother Suspects House.
The first morning, we noticed Mad Midwife Jill
Was lying in bed looking slightly ill.
Doc Tumblety took a quick peek, and scowled :
Mad Midwife Jill had been disembowelled!
This wasn’t propitious –
Downright suspicious!
The house was a-hum –
But more was to come.
Cricketer Montague Druitt was found
Head-first in the toilet, drowned.
"Suicide whilst of mind unsound".
But why were his wrists and ankles bound?
The Jewish slaughterman died of a fever
Brought on by being split with his cleaver.
A freemason rolled up his trouser, and he
Went west from a fatal stab in the knee.
Joe Barnett was drinking all the time,
And not ginger beer – he swigged all the wine.
He drank the lot, right down to the sediment
(Hence, of course, his speech impediment).
"Staid" Barnett was really a lively old spark –
He kept gutting fish, but just for a lark.
One night we all came down in the dark
To find he’d been eaten by a huge shark.
To make the scene more sad and pathetic,
Tumblety gave the shark an emetic.
A shark in a house is quite the worst place –
And who put the creature there in the first place?
Sir William Withey Gull lost his life.
He died of a stroke – from a butcher’s knife.
Maybrick the diarist, crass ‘n’ sick raver,
Expired from crisps (arsenic flavour).
Lewis Carroll perished in similar style :
Laced Cheshire cheese wiped the face off his smile.
And what of the Lodger?
Dead old codger.
Sickert, that painter Impressionistic,
Was crushed to a pulp and became a statistic.
Cutbush stuffed bloodstained clothes up the chimney
With youthful flair and aplomb.
One day we looked, and turned away grimly :
Up there was stuffed young Tom.
Doc T said he’d like to go back to the States,
Which he did, inside three separate crates.
Kosminski the Jew abandoned his pillow
To hang himself from a nearby willow,
Complaining of voices in his head –
Who put the radio under his bed?
So one by one the suspects died,
And piled up in a stack,
Until there was only one left inside,
And that one was me, and I’m Jack.
Robert
|
AP Wolf
Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 266
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Friday, May 30, 2003 - 4:20 pm: |
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Excellent, Robert.
I laughed till I near cried.
Yes, mine came out of the tail end of a fine bottle of Spanish Brandy, but whatever you are taking for inspiration is working just as well. If it is tea please tell me which brand of tea bag you are using, could save me a fortune.
I'm working on the Thomas poesie but I'm pushed for time at the moment, thank you for your positive comments about the last effort. |
Robert Charles Linford
Inspector
Username: Robert
Post Number: 203
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Saturday, May 31, 2003 - 12:40 pm: |
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Hi AP
Thanks for comments. This one is just a bit of fun, but I'm working on something much darker (I'm trying to do a thought experiment on this mother-son business).
JACK THE RIPPER'S GRAVESTONE
Stranger, as you pass my grave,
Pause and contemplate
How we are each a tiny wave
Upon a sea of Fate.
We are but brothers really,
I within and you without,
So bring me flowers yearly,
Or I'll rip your innerds out.
Robert |
AP Wolf
Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 267
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, June 01, 2003 - 3:00 pm: |
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Dr. Brook.
Dear Doctor Catholic Brook
I writ bout nasty medicine I took.
For that nastie evil pill
Has made me quite ill.
You told me it would stop the itch
To kill off some old bitch.
But instead me parts are on fire
With some strange desire
To do it some more
And kill ‘nother whore.
Now I be a clerk by profession
And me uncle says to teach you a lesson
With shot to the head
And send you to bed.
Your medicines is quite bad magic
And me privates do look most tragic.
And itch me most profuse and profound
And all I hear is that itching sound
Of ‘nother whore dispatched
When I must itch that scratch.
Please send me a proper cure
Afore I kill ‘nother whore.
Me uncle Charles says you all be scum
And protestants will, will be done
Even said I could use his gun.
He told me it would suit best
To shoot you right in chest.
He said to shoot a Catholic is right and nice
And just to make sure you must shoot him twice.
He told me that all his superiors
Were really rather inferior
And did need shooting the most
For they swallowed the holy ghost.
And did take biscuit and wine
And all things dandy and fine.
Now dear doctor Catholic Brook
I implore you to once again to look
At me highly complicated case
Or else I will shoot you in the face.
And if nothing be what you find
Then I will shoot you in behind.
Now I must be on me way
No time for silly delay.
For I have ‘nother whore to kill
After swallowing your bitter pill.
Signed
Tom-Tom
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Robert Charles Linford
Inspector
Username: Robert
Post Number: 206
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, June 01, 2003 - 4:11 pm: |
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Loved it, AP! Very funny indeed! Poor old Dr Brook!
Dear Tom-Tom,
Your letter hit me like a bomb!
Who are these "whores" you kill?
No wonder you feel ill.
Nurse Stride I sent to give you
A taste of healing cachou.
Nurse Chapman's paper had pills
To soothe away your ills.
Nurse Eddowes came from me
To offer you calming tea.
Nurse Nichols staggered about
To promote good, nourishing stout.
Nurse Kelly complied with my wish
To cook you potatoes and fish.
How can you blame my medicine,
When you won't follow my regimen?
You are too sudden by half :
I'm losing all my staff.
And now I can't be long with you,
For there's nothing really wrong with you.
But if you promise to leave your gun
In the brolly stand, I'll peep at your tongue.
Tomorrow then at three.
Yours truly Dr B.
Robert
|
AP Wolf
Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 268
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, June 01, 2003 - 5:11 pm: |
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Robert
you are getting too good for me.
A superb response.
I envied the way you slammed the victims in there as the nurses for Tom-Tom's ills.
Counter point stuff. Excellent.
I'm very busy at the moment but will fire up a suitable response when able.
Enjoying this.
|
Robert Charles Linford
Inspector
Username: Robert
Post Number: 207
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Monday, June 02, 2003 - 4:23 am: |
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No need for hurry, AP. I'll hack away at my dark uterus poem.
Robert |
AP Wolf
Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 269
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Monday, June 02, 2003 - 4:33 pm: |
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A Reply For Why.
Dear Doctor Catholic Bastard Brook
It is your goose I will soon cook.
Upon your head I place a thousand curses
For it were not me who murdered your nurses.
I merely ripped ‘em up a bit
A simple bit of tat for tit.
So unless I start feeling better
I will be sending you nice letter.
But here suitable word of caution
For you might not care for portion
That I include inside.
Little memento from one who died.
By accident you must understand
Just a minor slip of me hand.
Me uncle Charles is drunken old sot
Who says you lot should be shot.
He says to shoot the lot of you would be nice
A parliamentary infestation of Catholic mice.
He says you scum spread poison in our land
And must be dealt with by most firm hand.
He says no gunpowder plot for you
But just a few stabbings will do.
So he put this white noise inside me head
Which I hear even when in me old bed.
And that why I need your pills to counteract
This bloody inescapable fact.
Afore ‘nother nurse bites the dust
To feed this need that I urgently must.
Make sure the pills do not give me the clap
And thus make me poor manhood sap.
Make sure the pills are nice and round
To help drown out that awful sound.
Make sure they are good for the pain
Of when I meet my uncle again.
Now hope you don’t mind me writing in red ink
Because you stupid if that’s what you think
For I took it from your nurses’ vein
So send medicine or I’ll do it again.
From Hell I hope you well.
|
Robert Charles Linford
Inspector
Username: Robert
Post Number: 209
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Monday, June 02, 2003 - 5:02 pm: |
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Bravo, AP, bravo! I really enjoyed that - though I'm not sure that Dr Brook did!
The good doctor cannot reply tonight, having spent the entire day purchasing bullet-proof vests and trousers. However he will try to parry your thrust tomorrow.
Robert |
Robert Charles Linford
Inspector
Username: Robert
Post Number: 214
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Tuesday, June 03, 2003 - 11:39 am: |
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Hi AP
TO MR T CUTBUSH
Don’t send organ next letter.
Nurse Eddowes is dead – let’s forget her.
This organ-sending’s unsound :
There won’t be enough to go round.
I am no Catholic bastard –
I knew my father, at least.
I admit he sometimes got plastered,
But he was good Catholic priest -
Secretly married to Mother
(And I think to at least one other).
Though Catholic, I am not stern and stiff,
Hankering after November the Fifth,
So can’t we forget that gunpowder tiff?
(Although, to be parenthetical
I find your Mass murder heretical).
While I may revere the Host,
It’s the wine I like the most.
Your uncle talks crap –
Silly old chap!
"Popish plot."
Certainly not! –
Unless he means
Place Pope grows his greens.
Your bodily health is sound.
That’ll be five pound.
Your mind as sharp as a pin is.
That’ll be five guineas.
In short, you’re in health rude.
And so, I can’t be sued.
Don’t let the thought of death get you down,
Don’t be such a dunce.
It isn’t the dying that makes us frown,
It’s the fact we can do it but once.
And I swear on Nurse Kelly’s kettle
That you are in fine fettle.
There’s simple explanation
For every perturbation –
Forget Catholic transubstantiation,
Instead think constipation.
And though your ripping be odd quirk
Requiring a bit of remedial work,
You are not one of those paranoids -
All you have is haemorrhoids.
Consider, and you will find
Mental illness is all in the mind.
That dreadful white noise you complain of :
Could it be Wagner? Mere strain of
Him gives me fits,
He gets on my tits,
Could you cut him to bits?
You are something of a romancer :
Last week you had terminal cancer.
And before the week was out,
Your organs were moving about.
Your brain was where your stomach should be,
Your stomach was in your head.
So rather than just sit down to your tea
You stood upside-down instead.
You’d have had reason to grieve
If you’d actually ceased to breathe.
And further good news is this :
You don’t have syphilis.
Your private parts may droop,
But that’s what you get, with croup.
So you can breathe a lot freer
(Though you may have gonorrhoea).
The poisonous wrath of your uncle
Boils down to a painful carbuncle.
Your uncle will lead you astray -
Like as not, on a brewer’s dray.
Meanwhile, as I say,
You’re OK.
You do not have cirrhosis,
Just a hint of halitosis
(My nose’s diagnosis!).
All your woes are trivial,
So try to be more convivial.
Leave off swinging the leg, sir!
Desist at once, I beg sir!
Malingering is time lost,
As I know to my cost.
(Once, I claimed I was nearly dead,
I said I could die any minute.
I had the nuns around my bed,
But I could not get them in it.
Tea and sympathy?
All I got was the tea!).
The pills I prescribed, the bald facts to give,
Were actually powerful laxative.
But your days would have been less hectic,
If you’d told me you were dyslexic.
Instead of one pill for each ten days passed,
You took ten pills for each one – too fast!
And you threaten me with a gun!
No wonder you’re on the run.
Enough of your curses!
What of my nurses?
They’ve all got into a terrible state,
They’re counting their organs from dawn until late.
Keep killing them like flies,
And they’re going to ask for a rise!
I’m not overjoyed,
In fact I’m annoyed.
But there may be two worms in your bud :
All of this may be in your blood,
Your mother is strange and a bit of a dud.
So I’ll see you, again at three.
Yours truly, Dr B.
PS
Don’t bring gun, you no crack shot,
Probably destroy plant pot,
Or if your aim is really missed,
Blow holes in receptionist.
I am far from Pope plot hatching,
Hypochondria could be catching.
Got to go, these brief lines dropped –
Worried sick my heart has stopped!
Robert
|
AP Wolf
Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 270
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Tuesday, June 03, 2003 - 4:29 pm: |
|
Robert
you sir are an absolute fiend, to beat me at me own game!
Remarkable and well thought out verse.
I am in deep admiration.
Prepare for a salvo. |
AP Wolf
Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 271
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Tuesday, June 03, 2003 - 4:37 pm: |
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Dearest Doctor Bloody Brook
If you think letter has got you off hook
Then there is something you overlook,
For I detect amongst your verses
That it was you that did kill nurses.
For you have a vast array of instrument
These heinous crimes to implement.
Your intention and contention
Is that your medicine is prevention
For the ills that do surround
This wall of white sound.
But even though uncle Charles likes a sup
It was you who turned volume up.
So I can assure you sir, send pill
Or it is you I will kill.
I think you sir to be most rude and unkind
To say that mental illness is in me mind
For I think it is in me feet
And blood I left on street.
Just because me stomach is in me head
Don’t mean me mouth can’t be fed.
And no need for you to make heedless farce
Just because me heart has moved to me arse.
Me bodily organs do move around
In tune with that white sound
And the only way I can keep them still
Is me body with blood to fill.
For it helps the flow
And makes them organs slow.
I did take all ten pills at same time
And affect was quite sublime.
For I mistook me uncle for a whore
And stabbed him up a bit sore.
Then I slit the serving girl’s throat
And me auntie tried to choke.
So them pills ain’t half bad
Even when they make me mad.
I’d be grateful if you could send me more
As I feel the urge to kill ’nother whore.
With all your accumulated wealth
Have you never heard of National Health?
Just as you like to empty our purses
So I shall continue to kill your nurses.
Now I must write to Secretary of Treasury
With news of me new street directory.
Street by street, it is quite neat.
Even the alleyways are marked down,
Including special sites that can be found.
Upon close inspection you may well find
That certain places I have outlined,
May prove of special regard
To our friends at Scotland Yard.
Now, doctor babbling brook
Let’s see you get off that hook.
Signed
Tom Tom |
Robert Charles Linford
Inspector
Username: Robert
Post Number: 215
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Tuesday, June 03, 2003 - 5:34 pm: |
|
Wonderful stuff, AP! I can only try a defensive parry.
TO TOM TOM
Tom Tom, I do not kill
(Except my patients, when they are ill),
Nor take your problems lightly -
I receive your death threats nightly!
The pills which to you I gave
Apparently make you rave.
Don't take them before you shave.
But I appreciate your position,
And I'll accede to your petition
If you'll agree to one condition :
I'll give you the pills you crave,
If you send all my rivals to early grave.
Make your list of sites
Include doctors who work nights.
Then chart the roads and ways
Of the doctors who work days.
Become exceedingly wroth
And quickly bump them off.
I'll give you stuff to help with the gore,
Scalpels, knives and the odd hacksaw,
Just come to me if you want more.
Then you'll be King of Perdition,
And I'll be the Royal Physician.
Then Dr SIR Bloody Brook
Will truly be off the hook.
Robert |
Robert Charles Linford
Inspector
Username: Robert
Post Number: 218
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Wednesday, June 04, 2003 - 7:23 am: |
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I feel I should append
A note to the following end :
The level of my fees
I do not think excessive.
I could put on a freeze,
But with money, I am possessive.
In fact I'm quite obsessive.
The NHS, I'll bet
Has not been invented yet,
And won't be, for another lifetime -
I doubt if you'll see it in your knifetime.
My thoughts on my fees are still rumbling,
And hence this appendix grumbling
Which I know you'll ache to extract,
So I'll say no more, out of tact.
Now could you be a pal,
Kill Phillips, Brown et al,
And beforehand tell me how?
You see, I sort of thought
I could be nearby, and ought
To put in a brilliant report.
Then I'd come to public attention,
And in papers get a mention.
There's a pill in it for you,
If you do what I ask you to.
You won't be brought to book,
And I'll be Baron Brook.
Signed
Baron/Earl/Duke/Prince Brook (delete as applicable)
But don't delete me - that's just despicable.
Robert |
AP Wolf
Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 272
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Wednesday, June 04, 2003 - 1:18 pm: |
|
Ah Robert
you are not to be stopped or beaten, so I surrender and crown you as Duke Brook of Mitre Square.
An excellent job you have done as the good Doctor Brook of Westminster Bridge.
I think I will sink myself in deeper pit in melancholic fit.
The true Tom Tom will be revealed I fear. |
AP Wolf
Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 273
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Wednesday, June 04, 2003 - 1:50 pm: |
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Imperfect Reflection
The face in the mirror is quite alone
The face in the mirror is not his own.
There is a deep blackness
In the eyes
That pull him down
Deep inside.
To a place found in lost and found
To a place devoid of sound.
A private place
Reflected in the face.
Where only he can go
And only he will know
What must be Kingdom done
By Kingdom come
In the perfection
Of imperfect reflection.
There, right there, where the shards
Do litter the ground
A hundred thousand broken mirrors
Can be found.
Where aeons of images
Have tumbled down
And all did tumble
Without a sound.
In this place of bloody feet
Bloody feet, bloody feet
And bloody bloody street.
There doth strange being adorn
- Cast down in human form -
The idle stairways of mansion mind
Struck down deaf, dumb and blind.
Amid this broken glass strewn around
No vile purpose can be found.
For can of worms is the bait
In vacuum stuffed full of hate.
Eyeless maggots that writhe
And squirm.
Out that bud
You blasted worm.
Out that bud
And out that flower,
And then out
You seed of power.
And out that new shoot
And out that new root,
And then comes that bud…
Such a greedy grub.
Turn
You worm!
What must be Kingdom done
Will by Kingdom come
In the perfection
Of imperfect reflection.
|
Robert Charles Linford
Inspector
Username: Robert
Post Number: 219
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Wednesday, June 04, 2003 - 2:46 pm: |
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Hi AP
I think "Imperfect Reflection" is a fantastic poem! Eerie, calm, powerful, passionate... I only wish I could turn out one like this.
Thank you for the extremely stimulating Tom-Brook exchange. I had tremendous fun reading Tom Tom's letters. I think it should be a draw, with you having the title "Duke Cutbush of Kearley and Tom".
And now, I suppose, I must return to my dark uterus poem, which has been in the refrigerator for the past few days.
Robert |
AP Wolf
Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 274
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Wednesday, June 04, 2003 - 5:19 pm: |
|
Robert
you better get that uterus out of the fridge soon or you will have public health on your case.
I too enjoyed the Brook-Tom exchange and we must try a Lord or two soon. I thank you for me new title.
You have already turned out better than imperfect reflection but part two might be hard to follow as I have just received - by post - a full case of fine Spanish brandy. This is where the internet will never match the technology of the old postal system, for it will never deliver Spanish brandy to me door.
I wish you a good night. |
AP Wolf
Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 275
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Thursday, June 05, 2003 - 5:03 pm: |
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Imperfect Reflection Too
Sometimes he could not hide
From the black that became too wide
In his eye.
It would swallow the blue
And swallow you too.
That sputtering speech
That could never reach
The words he longed to speak,
Words forever out of reach.
So he took to bloody blade
Forged in heaven and made
From spit and spunk
In hell holed and sunk.
And did take that blade
And incise decision made
To plug that hole in universe
And hold down humanity with curse.
To rant and rave, to stab and crave
That heart of desire, that heart of fire
And extinguish it in his solitary hand
And rid this plague throughout the land.
To stab it right through the quick
And feel the blood and feel the spit.
Smelted blood on smelted steel
An entire universe to unpeel
Layer upon layer upon layer
Work your work you useless slayer.
For the mirror talks of the smell of rust
And the mirror is hidden by dust
Where concealed beneath the wrath
A gentle sweep with gentle cloth
Does clear the image quite well
And there in heaven is quiet hell.
For mirror does not reveal
In fact it doth conceal
The blood, spunk and reflected sin
Of the face without and the face within.
Whose face is the ultimate sinner?
The face within or face in mirror?
All the victims are contorted
All the images be distorted.
Each image is unique insight
Of moth caught fatally in light.
Fluttering and stuttering,
But drawn to the dawn
Of a blood red sky
Where many would die.
In the perfection
Of the reflection.
|
Robert Charles Linford
Inspector
Username: Robert
Post Number: 228
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Thursday, June 05, 2003 - 6:12 pm: |
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Hi AP
In my humble opinion, that is one of the best poems I've read, not just on these Boards, but anywhere. It was quite something to read it.
Could I be wrong, or was there a slight brandy input? For heaven's sake don't sign the pledge.
You were right about my dark uterus poem. I do feel it may have gone off a bit, and I've therefore redesigned it and given it a new lease of death. I'll post it as soon as I can, but meanwhile thanks again for a super poem.
Robert
|
Robert Charles Linford
Inspector
Username: Robert
Post Number: 233
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Friday, June 06, 2003 - 2:17 pm: |
|
Hi AP
DEATH BY POISON
Sh*t out and shut out on bed of blood,
Cord round neck, and choking.
Nose and ears stuffed full of crud,
Trying to cry, only croaking.
Kicking at air and blankets gory -
This was his first bedtime story.
Age of five, all alone in the wood,
Distant wolves a-howling.
Cottage at centre grimacing stood,
Dogs around it growling.
Someone was waiting with pillow to smother -
Looked through the window and saw his mother.
A sunless childhood he dreamless slept,
Guilt's sly tendrils snaking
As round his neck and feet they crept,
While the witch continued her baking.
Fairies fled, guarding their dust,
Away from the lullaby of disgust.
But oh! when this Rip Van Winkle awoke,
The lightning flash was blinding.
And then he could only blink through the smoke
At the long road backwards winding,
Back to the Pit and the cup of spit -
So Rip Van Winkle began to let rip.
He cut the cords and stored his hoards,
Whistling the witch's refrain.
He killed the monsters with her swords,
But gazed not in her eyes again -
Just left them open in glory,
At his final bedtime story.
Robert
|
AP Wolf
Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 276
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Friday, June 06, 2003 - 3:45 pm: |
|
Robert
'Death by Poison' was a moving piece, moving emotionally and moving spatially. Very good and profound. I am enjoying this exchange which seems to centre around a sweet and innocent Tom Tom character who has been perverted by what we call life, and has then struck out in anger at the basis of his upbringing. My gut feeling is that this is very likely a valid interpretation.
I think it radical that you employed fairie tale, and it worked radically rather well.
Thank you for your very postive comments about me own contribution, quite honestly I don't even remember writing it and I certainly don't remember posting it.
You sherlock, of course it was the Spanish brandy.
Yours was an excellent poem. |
Robert Charles Linford
Inspector
Username: Robert
Post Number: 235
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Friday, June 06, 2003 - 4:44 pm: |
|
AP, thank you very much for what you said about my poem.
I'm gobsmacked that you don't remember writing or posting yours, but the main thing is that you wrote it down. Don't do a Coleridge and forget most of it afterwards!
I hope there's still plenty of brandy left, as I'm eager to hear more.
Needless to say, I have a humorous one brewing in my head, but before that I'd like to do another serious one. I'm OK for tea and cigarettes, so I hope to have something in a day or two.
Robert |
AP Wolf
Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 277
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Monday, June 09, 2003 - 4:28 pm: |
|
Imperfect Reflection Free
He stands perfectly still
Perfectly reflected for the kill.
He stands in his own perfect will
Of his own deep black heart to fill
With the essence of another kind
And in that heart doth he blindly bind
All the free blood that he can blindly find.
He hacks and saws
At some spare whores…
He grinds and blades
At mistakes he made
In universal fabric of time
In mistake of rhyming rhyme.
He picks up glittering jewels from fire
That were but coal.
Then he sticks bloody finger through
Some strange wormhole.
And then stabs it to reflect
Some image quite perfect
But inherent in its defect.
For the stabbing in its deficiency
Allows him some small efficiency.
Some small part…
For jamming the tart.
For spreading some butter on bread
And whole population in great dread.
All in great shiver
of small boy in mirror.
Beaten and bruised
Kicked and abused.
The image held sound
And in that image found
Some great purpose to best
A lifetime to invest…
For the shimmer in the flame
Where he could burn the blame.
To consume and burn that desire
To quench them flame and fire.
And bathe in red raw flesh
To invest, invest and invest.
Scratch that card and scratch it hard,
Itch that itch and kill that bitch
Scab that sore and scab that whore.
And in that universe he did score
Good points for every whore he tore
To shard and shred.
And on those old bones was fed
With fresh flanged flesh to boil
And grease ridden lamp oil
That blackened the stump
And plagued at the lump
That boiled beneath his skin
And set the monster within.
But were a passing reflection
Of his own massive imperfection.
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