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I want to kill
Just for the thrill
Enticing oddly exhilarating
Gruesome mutilation of someone quite deserving
You think I’m perverse perhaps
But think of all the gullible saps,
I would save
From a knave
Who’d carve up an elderly innocent
Until bled dry of every last cent
For me, worthy vindication
Roar the scum’s elimination
Oh, give it up
Put down you’re ’sup
Fantasized you have; bomb under the desk
That Teflon person who eludes arrest
The scofflaw jerkoff down the other street
So quick with his hands and fast on his feet
So don’t cluck your tongue or whine in dismay
Read this poem or I might come your way.
Hear my laughter sing; my chainsaw start up?
Surprised you think I’m morally bankrupt
But not as much
As death’s light touch
Slit throat of a poetic imbecile
Blood drips, ink and well, on the window sill
April is the cruelest month weather-wise
Words mutilated under changing skies.
Kill the monster of dreams and reality
For the thrill, chill, or latent vanity.
Beware the poet
Doth he stitch it
Hammer words hard
Like a glass shard
Hit the target
Pierce the heart yet?
Rick Bylina
4/21/16
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