Gnashing Teeth Outside the Chained Gates

Suck dog water, you itchy scum.
I can’t believe your kind have survived this long.

You probably hold not a clue how reviled you are,
cushioned in your own delusion by a skull thick with illusion.

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I hope you choke.
You fucking toad.

You won’t get away with your hateful game too long.
The wolves will hunt you down, make no mistake.

How you made it this far, you tainted scrap of humanity, I haven’t a clue.
Shouldn’t you have died off with the seven-legged mud crabs and trilobites?

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You’re scum.
You’re worse than malaria.

Exile would be too kind.
What you deserve is incineration.

Death by massive fire-blasting until your hair crisps and skin curdles.

Your blackened crust will feed the urchins,
and any fortune you and your wretched ilk
will sink into the murky mire of obscurity.

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When each of you swine meet your demises, I will dance and sing.

BSB

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Who Couldn’t Love That Smile?

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His cheekbones pronounced, his slight bristle of stubble, his brows immaculately-shaped, he positively glowed from the picture frame.
He could have modeled. Perhaps not on the runway, for his demeanor was too humble, too approachable. He lacked the stark, cold angularity usually reserved for runway types – those exiguous flesh mannequins, paid to shut up and look fierce, or bored, or merely apathetic.
But he could be useful on some poster or brochure selling a car, or a vacation, or a cup of coffee.
Did his girlfriend ever say things like, “You have such a nice face, you should be on television?”
Did he give modeling a go?
Was he chewed up and spit out by the heartless fashion industry?
Did he write postcards from a broken-down Los Angeles motel room?
Or was he simply happy being who he was? A bank manager, newly promoted, newly moved into a two-bedroom, Yaletown address, newly murdered?

BSB

Princess of the Wastelands

I can hear her now
from across the room:

the princess, with doe eyes

she believes she lives here
this is her living room,
and these are her people

a party
her party, perhaps
and she’s doing her duty, entertaining guests

until the music dies

and the curtain falls

BSB

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Hunting Ground

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Lights shine artfully from towers that stab the night sky. That’s the key. The fill light seeps from lamp-posts and taxis and pedestrian cars. The darkness becomes the subject that’s framed in heroic personification.
Alley-bound prowlers become protagonists in the urban ballet of apathy and compassion. Smoke emits from gutters to languish. Ambition puts root down on street-corners, seeking to sprout adventure.

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The Korean joint in the square vomits superstars into the downtown air. The courthouse leans on Howe, and around happy-go-luckies still desperately preening to the twilight chill.
Everywhere pulses with desperate desire. Everywhere thrusts. Men prowl the street. Women seek the light and warmth. Downtown is darkest jungle.
-BSB

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Every horror story has victims and monsters.

imagesSome great mind conceived, in times self-obsessed upon creative genius, the horrid comedy unfolding moment by moment around us.

262587959_1545173We all, from the chattering masses of giggling girls adorned with glittered cosmetics, cosmo-politan branded attire, handbags and clutches, and fingernails; to the brash and brazen boys with wooden smiles, and plastic, remote controlled personalities; we all bounce and bound off walls in attempt to wrap mind around the big picture, to little avail.

tumblr_nzqvezedse1uc0ww3o1_500We cannot see the forest entire in all the clutter, noise and business. The message is lost amidst the crossfire of orders given, driven, shouted and whispered, with varying degrees of urgency.

The point is not here, not present in this chaos. One might feel half-compelled to lament the loss of meaning in a fragrant, expensively eye-catching mushroom cloud that mars the landscape of a new enlightenment.aa94ab3409dafd673c59f2fd3a4f7012

Too busy comparing summer vacations in Vietnam, and winter trips to Vegas, cellular phones, and stylists, or expressing opinions on the artistic merit of the latest series finale – which was, of course, the most important piece of fiction ever captured on screen, and will no doubt live on for eternity.00fc70e2c76557bf6e420c965877b70d

We won’t bother shedding tears for this latest lame horse, saddled and whipped, and loosed from the gates of Hollywood to batter itself against track and fence to gain praise and favour.

We won’t waste worry or care for the car wreck, loud and destructive it may be, for we know that soon the cacophony will cease, the horse will die, the wreck will be cleared, and we can go about our lives until the next catastrophe goes to camera.