Posts Tagged ‘criminals’

There’s a fine line between justice and crime,
And some walk that line haphazardly,
They choose not to defer to authority,
And take matters into their own hands,
Vengeance rarely looks like a courtroom,
And it is never a portrait,
More often it is spent cartridges in an alley,
Bullet and hammer and blade,
These are the tools of the vigilante,
These are the judge and jury,
And the will behind them is the executioner.

I’ve heard upon the grapevine,
Violence is the music of the streets,
When a body hits the tarmac,
And no saviour is around to hear it,
Does it make a noise?

I say yes,
Each thump and kick is percussion,
A backset to our tarmac orchestra,
Each cracked rib is a shrill trumpet,
The screams are background static,

It’s a painful song,
Played by novices in hooded shirts,
They’re proud of their work nonetheless,
Perpetrators scurrying away is their crescendo,
Followed by applause and gurgles.

You know that old tale,
Tale as old as time,
Boy meets girl,
Boy compliments girl,
Girl thanks him politely,
Girl continues with her life,
Boy thinks about it for days,
Boy gets obsessed,
Boys mind gets grimmer,
Boy stalks girl for months,
If boy can’t have girl nobody can,

Boy sees girl again,
Girl does not know,
Girl has had a long day,
Boy follows girl home,
Girl has a shower,
Boy peers in through the shades,
Boy readies a claw hammer,
And the rest,
As they say,
Is history,
Criminal history.

I heard the shots,
The cracks in the wind,
Approaching thuds and slugs,
Sounds of manmade thunder,

I felt the shrapnel pierce my lungs,
Iron colliding with rib and flesh,
White-hot and dire,
Exit-wound pending,

I felt the pavement on my face,
With my body bag colleagues,
Overseen by a man of ill intent,
Frigid eyes behind a pump action,

But I did not feel any fear,
Because it was on a silver screen,
A report of another tragedy,
On the world’s own streets,
On Plymouth’s own streets.

Walking through these cold streets,
All I see is grey,
Save for the colours of demons,
Hovering behind human shoulders,
Feral spirits whispering into human ears,
Cupped hands beside unknowing brains,
Sweet nothings that feign sweetness,

One suggests taking that crones handbag,
Another sings the praises of broken windows,
Yet another gives you invitations to every speak-easy,
These invisible spectres suggest the worst of vices,
Pushing a dark narrative,
They are over all of our shoulders,
Wearing the shrouds of angels,

Whispering,
Whispering,
Suggesting.

Ofttimes we confer our lives to men of medicine,
Hippocratic Samaritans,
Truly worthy of our trust,
Yet once this trust was broken,
Reduced to residue in a syringe,
By a foul miscreation of fate,
On the island kingdom he resided,
A creature with eyeglasses and a kindly gaze,
This monster in a white coat,
Human anthrax,

Where he practiced,
The neediest of us fell,
Where he called,
Toxins invaded innocent bloodstreams,
Grandads and grandmas,
Taken by foul chemical artifice,
They needed him,
And yet he slaughtered them,
Casually he spoke in the sound of needles,
Smiled kindly with venom behind teeth,

Aged though these victims were,
They could still have had decades,
But with him they had minutes.

That grin,
Oh that grimace,
Wielded by that walking corpse,
Clad in leather and chain,
It hungers to tear asunder meat,
Meat that still struggles,
Those lips still drip with cruelty,
Salivating,
Salivating,

Desiccated flesh splitting in a curve,
Joy formed with painful contortion,
Each bronzed tooth telling a tale of murder,
Poems of crime upon each breath,
A scarred tongue dancing on graves behind,
This is a maw of evil,
This grin,
It’s an avatar of death,
And it’s directed at you.

I am bound to this place,
Consumed by these walls,
These offices of authority,
Branded with this name badge contract,
Fastened a bit deep to my chest,
I am to action this places will,
I am its blade and quill,
A rusty cog in an old machine,

Some serf comes before this department,
She comes begging for monetary salvation,
She will soon be homeless,
But we are no charity,
Too many have come begging today,
So the red stamp denies her,
Her tears a prayer to this place,
The doorman will remove her,

All in a days sweat,
Good enough for government work.


Some people are extralegal you know,
In their minds they are above the law,
So see no issue with pushing against it,
Temporary little deities,
It’s their lord-given right of arrogance,
The law is for lessers,
For those other people,
So they form their one-man mafias,
Snug in their own vigilantism,
Free in their own mind,
To do as they wish,
It’s a free country right?

You see my friend,
To be critical of these souls,
Is to be a police state,
Allegedly.


Monsters are real,
Oh yes indeed,
They walk every street,
Every boulevard,
They hide in plain sight,
They are you and me,
I hear hissing and slavering,
In my ears and on radio waves,
Bound to criminal urges,
Committing crimes to live,
Monsters in all but name,

Stabbing you in the back,
Just for a crumb of feed,
Throttling you pale,
For the pure thrill of it,
Clubbing your skull,
For the loose change in your pocket,
Burning you to sorry ashes,
For they covet the heart you love,
Monsters are very real,
And it’s true what they say,
The worst monsters are human.