Terror Streets

Poem regarding a winter wonderland

these are terror streets
covered in oil and blood
aging and dangerous
endlessly stalked
by soulless hovering mercenaries
stocked with countless writhing citizens
speeding everywhere and nowhere
snatching at their unimaginable quota
of fire and steel
gravel and water
and every other kind of stuff

 

these are wicked streets
especially in the faint glow
of a thousand marching streetlights
the iniquity is barely noticed
rarely graced with mercy
or anything like surrender
these are mean streets
hiddeous streets
sadistic and self satisfied streets
swollen grids of sleeping menace
too slippery to see
too empty to know
too cold to endure

 

it is nearing Christmas and
the old mission is eating up the stars again
swallowing them whole
just like this time last year
millions of hungry frozen fireflies
dance on wires in the wind
I walk my bicycle through the crowd
watching strange undulating mannequins
gyrating oddly on the ledges
and in ancient spanish alcoves
glowing cool with electricity
on those high elevations
the air is thick and crisp
and main street smells of
cinnamon and death

 

they do not see me
these people mulling here
they do not know something I know
this crowd with their shining faces
scrubbed pink by truckloads of detergent
leaving drying residues of boredom
plain and common scents
some faint hint of sickness
the air is chill and slightly sweet
infused with the cheap chemistry
of continuing research
and tireless mixing

 

what they fail to see
what they can't begin to imagine
what I would like to tell them
what they need to know
what is more important than all this
what is really really real
is that jimmy died yesterday
I mean he ate it man
eradicated viciously
totally terminated
righteously resting
for the duration of all time

 

he just came up behind him
jimmy was just sitting there
just sitting there talking with a friend
he walked up behind jimmy
holding a metal shelf bracket
jagged edge filed quickly to a point
ugly and and menacing
and he stabbed the guy
stabbed him five times
holding the back of the chair in one hand
he struck over the shoulder
inexpensive metal tearing valuable gut
in a sudden and final surprise
of unusual horror

 

and when the violence was accomplished
the victims wide eyes were asking
they were momentarily pleading
his anguished expression
forming this strange appellation
begging the question
we now all wish to ask

 

he said

 

what the f**k?

 

wouldn't you want to know?

 

Author's Note

Merry Christmas

Reviews

[RainQueen]

Wow. Powerful write. The perception of the narrator, after losing a friend to violence - It permeates and builds.

Breathtaking, technicolor view of the way our world transforms after violence. I hope it's fiction, I really do...

Another magnificent write.

[MAC]

an excellent write

[FlatDaddy]

I had to read this twice: the second time to make sure I got it all after understanding the whole of it from the first read -- and purely for the enjoyment of it. Enjoyment of the writing, of course, not story, for the story is gruesome indeed. You must have known this man; for your portrait of him is very personal, and I felt your sorrow and outrage.

A very good read; however, I think some punctuation to provide pauses at the end of thoughts would have been helpful to provide clarity. But this is a powerful statement, my friend.

[ChaoticSoul]

You have a wonderful way of telling stories through a poetical and lyrical way. One of my favorite bands is Bad Religion and this reminded me of something that could be a song by them. This is powerful and thought-provoking. Wonderful writing.

[bob, small b. aka invs]

you need more readers. you're good.
not exactly It's a Wonderful Life you've written here, but sadly, it's also a little slice of life.
merry christmas.