Clean Sweep

Sometimes

I like to pretend

that the lack of eye contact

– that is typical on the tube –

is caused by my powerful Mafioso connections;

legendary rage, brutality

and all seeing eyes.

Ah meester Contellini, please do not kill me.

Ah meester Capaci, please don’t attack me.

I nod, with my coal eyes,

scissor slits on a lined paper face:

You have been pardoned oh weak ones,

but do not cross this God before you again.

Sometimes

I like to pretend

that this screaming shuttle

– that splutters and scrapes –

is really a spaceship

darting around a tubular galaxy

devoid of stars.

It is the home of carnivirous creatures

hungry for human flesh.

They want in this ship.

They scream and scrape beneath,

clawing to creep inside

and devour us limb by limb.

Sometimes

I like to pretend

that when I get off this train

and walk to my workplace

that

– instead of picking up a broom –

I pick up a gun

and I blow these scum bags

on the streets to smithereens.

The whores,

the scoring and the pimping.

The dealing and the killing.

The world needs a hero.

It’s time to clean up the streets,

I’d say.

Time to clean up the streets.

Little Blonde.

Little blonde woman,

meek and mild,

another day in the office;

a new face in they grey.

He is different.

Scottish, tall, aloof.

Proof that books read

make a more meaty conversation.

You are captivated;

imprisoned by love and lust.

You will lose yourself to him.

Little blonde

with rusted roots,

hair shaped like a bulb;

the electricity tangible.

He gives you gifts

of ideas,

of how to live life

and shape your destiny.

The sex raw and rough,

he challenges you

to grow with him

into an icon never forgotten.

Little blonde,

he binds you in bondage

and traps you for life.

The meek inherit the Earth

but you inherit a life of four walls

and the occasional visit

from blinded well-wishers.

He broke you with his words,

his charisma

and his De Sade literature.

“Myra Hess” he would call you

as you posed for him,

proud and exposed,

open to him

and open to his world.

Little blonde,

your dark roots expose you

and black and white photos

flash across the world.

Your image brings incitement

of hatred and horror.

Love for one man

has made you forever immortal.

Paradise for Terrorists.

A room spins,

part of a cataclysm

in this eternal yarn,

it’s line swimming like sea waves

and distant as a dream.

White sheets,

crisp and cold

from the constant change

and upheaval

are repeatedly used and

repeatedly aired

to show off the squashed blackberries

that were forced to escape a place of innocence.

He smiles,

eyes hooded.

This red blooded male

smokes a cigar

and pats the weeping girls rump

as she limps out of the room.

The yarn slides down her thigh

and glides connecting

to the line of others.

The sheets are changed

by smiling servants

who place the next table cloth down

to serve his ravenous hunger.

“Praise Allah.”

he says, smiling fondly.

“Blowing that train up was totally worth it.”

Face Rape.

O.M.G I am so ANGREEEE!!!!!

Y u angery hunn?

Yeh wots up Saz? xx

Jus my mum bein a nob wunt let me outt!!!

Y OMG wut ew gunna do?

Dunt know shes angree bout our piks in barfrum as well

in our shorts and braz and cuz i wear meke up at school! im 13! ¬_¬

Wot she fink bout ur bf? xx

she dunt knuw she wudnt undersand!!! </3 he want meet me 2mora

but dunt tell no1!!!!

Iz this dat relli fit boi wiv car? xx

YEH he just turn 16 well fitt. 😉

Maybee ull hav 1st kiss LOL!!

NAR I had that wiv mikey at disco!!

OMFG!

YER! GTG LUVS!!!!!! ❤ 🙂

Three days later:

Missing Girl Mystery Connected to Facebook.

Still No Sign of Mystery Girl.

35 Year Old Man Involved In Missing Girl Case.

“I saw Missing Girl Get In Car With Paedo.”

Missing Girl: Body Found.

35 Year Old Convicted Rapist Charged.

Whispers in a Jar.

Hard, dry, crumbling ground,

quietly cracking from the explosives

hidden, breathless beneath.

Sixty years before

small, grimy, gentle little hands

in the darkness before dawn

had dug deep, with determination

to hide something  within them.

It was a secret that

wouldn’t be known  for six long decades.

Those children grew

into stunted, tortured, twisted bodies

that could not escape

those harsh, tense touches in the night.

Lying in bed,

they wait for the creaking crack

in the door to grow in size

and for the shadow to flirt with the ground

and the decision of whether or not

to rape a child.

Eyes surrounded by puffy wrinkles

still wait, with the covers

pulled up tight to their chins.

The home for children

was meant to be a haven

of safety and security;

but instead of colourful crayon

drawings  placed proudly on the walls

there were whispered words

written in light, shaky hands.

Light enough to be almost invisible,

these children were hidden from a world

not yet ready to understand.

In that day and age such things

did not exist

and were easily missed  by blind eyes,

milky with the dew of patriotism and ignorance.

Sixty years on and those brittle,

broken words are finally heard.

They escape from the cracked jars

they had been banging on,

burdened and buried under the crumbling ground.

Like a phoenix they rise

free from those lies and the perversion

of people who were meant to care.

The Curious Tale of Walter Collins.

That curious Collins child
replaced with the face
of a child with less grace
and honour.
Your honour I swear
I never touched a hair
on that young chaps head
and now you say he is dead.
I axe you,
what man could I be
to destroy the innocence
and peace
of an angelic child?
Children are wild.
They should be penned up
like chickens, and hens
and I pen this lack of confession.
For you see I’m on a misson
to save this neck from the rope.
He was scooped up and cooped up
to tame him and frame him
and his curious, curious life.
I axe you.
Why would I take the life
of such an angelic child
with wings wild and in need of clips?
You could say he flew away
only to be replaced
with the face of a child
who had less grace.
Your honour I swear
I never touched a hair
on that young chaps head
and now you say he is dead.
I axe you.

I am an ant.

I am an ant.

I am not your child’s play thing.

I am an ant.

I have no personality,

No name,

Nor a history.

I am an ant.

I work for my Queen

And I will defend her to my death

If you so much as think

Of putting little sticks

In the holes we have on the ground.

Do not

Pour

Boiling

Water

Over us

Either.

For our souls will unite in Heaven

And watch as you grow

Into this nation’s favourite serial killer.

I am an ant.

Part of a large colony

And frequently used

In children’s stories

To teach you lazy oiks about hard work,

Determination and

Above all, industriousness.

I am an ant.

Now fuck off,

I’m busy.