Riots

The people can be pushed too far,
Through injustice or lies,
Then the riots start,
A rondo of burned cars and shattered glass,
A masquerade ball of balaclavas,
The bubble always bursts,

Insidiously sometimes,
Tension building bit by bit,
Like a clot travelling betwixt organs,
Other times all at once,
A human tidal wave in the throes of rancor,
A tsunami of Molotov’s and stones,

There may be a just reason,
A motive of rebellion,
Or there may not,
Chaos for its own sake,
The streets feel the wrath regardless,
The ruin is the same.

Pub Venom

Alcohol is a poison they say,
And I daresay they are right,
It is not cyanide it’s true,
Its modus operandi is insidious though,
It makes people change,
Brewery sponsored Hydes,
More primitive,
And somehow diminished,

As the venom is imbibed,
None prove unaffected,
Gentlemen revert to swine,
Dames start to shriek like banshees,
Pacifists become drunken brawlers,
And men of learning act like toddlers,
Common sense is suddenly rather rare,
Brains in inebriated flux,

The toxins incubation period,
A night on the town,
Painting the streets bruise-purple and red,
The poison does its work,
Leaving its victims ruined and awash with vice,
Flush with embarrassment,
Depositing an inhuman husk,
Laid beside a porcelain throne.

Bundy

Evil can rest behind a smiling face,
An amicable face,
Even a handsome face,
Charisma is the tool of a monster,
Just as a blade or garotte,
Yet more savage,
More cutting,
That was Ted,

Too many souls taken in by a friendly smirk,
A mask hiding thoughts of violation and murder,
Sugared words upon a serpents tongue,
Caught too late,
Highlighting the fell reality,
That fiends hide in plain sight,
Psychopathy cloaked in friendship,
That was Ted.

Rotary Saw

One day I grimaced at my hands,
And I saw that they were not truly mine,
Bound to schemes not my own,
Tied to some parliamentary puppeteer,
Oligarchs bluffing authority,
So I took a rotary saw to them,

With each rotating bite,
Every vein separated,
Muscle torn from radius,
Each bone bloodily gnawed through,
I felt no fire from the excision,
I felt relief,

Self-mutilation rapture,
The roar of petrol chokes any vice,
No longer can these hands commit the evils of others,
I’m no longer a tool,
If I cannot touch,
I cannot harm.

The Zealot

Have you seen that man?
Stood plentifully bestrewn in crimson petals,
Within a garden of fresh corpses,
A crusader amongst broken innocents,
He’s a killer like any other,
But sanctioned by those lofty spires,
A good holy soldier,

In place of prayer,
He commits to flagellation,
Pain weaving betwixt discipline,
He hears voices in the dark,
They come from dusty books,
A tome that claims divinity,
A higher morality touted in its pages,

What began as a good and humble life,
Was dismantled piecemeal by fear and hate,
Xenophobia and bigotry written as commandments,
Seeing jihads in all directions,
Knives at the windows,
The sermons were twisted to command,
And so he strikes.

Fist Of Man

There is tell of a fallen angel,
Feathers replaced with horns,
Some epitome of spite,
And of this we are taught to fear,
Lauded as some ultimate enemy,
But I say different,

The devil is an amateur,
Way out of his infernal depth,
Ultimate evil sits in coffee shops and sips lattes,
A creature as studious as it is destructive,
Whose ingenuity has moulded countless systems of abuse,
It chokes the land not in lies but toxic waste,

The devil should just retire,
Last I checked we wore serpent skins,
Extinction is just in a days work,
Even Lucifer ought fear the mailed fist of man,
Both in location and scale of evil,
Humanity is punching down.

Eastern Front

Under thundery skies of white,
Came the rumble of tracks,
And the boom of gunnery,
A boreal front is rent open,
An iron cross enclosing upon an eastern jugular,
Hammer and sickle on the backfoot,
Surrender was no option,
And so flesh was ground against iron,
The blitzkrieg was on,

Two flags spiral around each other in dispute,
Cities and fields become their shrapnel market,
Lives were the currency paid in full,
But both fate and snow had other ideas,
The winter came to its sons aid,
Freezing fuel and choking soldiers in grey,
Another weapon against the iron cross,
Like the little emperor before,
This evil could not weather the winterstorm.

Tarmac Orchestra

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.

The Creep

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.

Forever War

Under this phosphorus curtain,
In these blood-strewn streets,
I do not believe this war will end,
Which war you ask?
The forever war,
Humanity versus humanity,
Presided over by those arms dealer divines,
Lauded by sycophants of the political class,
Soldiers are mere cents,
Towns are legal tender,

Nations become naught more than stockpiles,
Fuel for the napalm fires,
Iron and uranium and young blood,
Progeny sent into a grinder en masse,
Front lines along the bottom line,
Eradication becomes a profit all its own,
Both decades and darlings have already rotted,
There can be no ceasefire,
When populations are just another currency,
To these hollow men.