It has been said,
I'm wrong in the head,
That I just haven't,
ever been right,
is it because,
I hear voices in my sleep,
and see faces in the walls at night?
I'm haunted by my dreams,
scenes of me happy,
as I stand at a bus stop,
with a tommy-gun,
I got an urge to mutalate Nuns,
and carve my initials in their buns.
My need to kill is dire,
I want to see,
that if I shove a stick in your ass,
and spin you,
will you catch fire?
Until this day,
my groin is shaved,
the region sports an array,
of self inflicted adornments,
hooks and rings transfixed,
to my lower belly and genitals,
with needles stratigically,
inserted into my testicles.
I close my eyes,
and masturbate to women with one breast,
and holes in their thighs,
a world full of human slaves,
on leashes made from chains,
while death sits on a crate,
warming his feet from bodies that are flamed.
I see gardens of bones and shratinal,
with children blowing whistles,
made from fingers and Adam's apples.
I'm loose on the streets.......
and most likely walked right past you.
© Copyright 2016 Tyrone Slade. All rights reserved.
Poem / Religion and Spirituality
Poem / Memoir
Poem / Memoir
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