The Show

As the shadows lengthen on our street, and the sounds of industry are drowned
The turning of the cogs slow, and weary muscles ease 
The foreman releases us for the evening, to rebel within the constraints of fleeting freedom

As we walk the trail to our homes, we catch a glimpse of the sun's descent
And as that red fringe dissolves in the ocean, a silence falls over every one
A chilling stir is felt, unspoken, as the purple glow lingers
A current pulling at our core 
An ebb towards the edge of the horizon
Recognition of this eternal show reflecting in each of our eyes

As the day's end gathers strength, to pull the veil of night over the shifting canvas above,
the sun builds its fury elsewhere, to break a new day and rise once more

For the hour glass is tipped 
And the sand flows to the shore

The Skinless Man

The skinless man didn't make a scene. In fact the skinless man didn't draw attention. The skinless man seemed almost serene. That's why the skinless man is worth a mention.

The skinless man first looked at me on the bus. Well, stared. But that wasn't his fault. You see, the skinless man had no lids on his eyes. So staring was all he had.
He was sitting at the front of the empty bus when he turned his head and spotted me. Calmly he stood up and made his way towards my seat. Despite his obvious health problems, he positively strode down the isle. I wasn't scared, or even nervous. Because apart from his exposed muscles and tendons gleaming in the morning sun, he seemed like a nice enough chap.
"May I have your skin?" he asked, or so I assumed as it was impossible to make out a word the skinless, lipless, lidless man had to say.
"What for mister?"
"Oh nothing peculiar. I only wish to wear it. If you don't mind."
The skinless man was painfully polite despite his obvious blood loss. 
"Why sure mister. I'll have it off in a jiffy," I said as it seemed like the right thing to do, especially considering how polite I imagined him to be.
"I always carry my pocket knife. Well, uh... right here in my pocket in fact!"
He would have smiled at that I was sure, had he only had lips and cheeks at his disposal.
The lipless, cheekless man stood in what I assumed was awe as I plunged the two-inch blade into my neck. It seemed like as good a place as any to start. The pain was indescribable, but I didn't want the skinless man to feel bad so I cut and cut right down my side until I reached my toes without as much as a squeek. Then I came back up, back down and back up the other side until I made it all the way round to the first cut.
The skin fought against me as I pulled at it but it eventually gave in and peeled off. The blood was something fierce, but it wasn't every day you got the chance to give a skinless man a lump of skin. So who was I to complain?
"There you go mister," I said, handing the speechless man my cut-up skin.
He didn't say a word, or so I imagined. He simply started pulling my skin over his bloody bones and meat. Just like putting on a shirt.
The skin wasn't quite enough to cover his entire body but he kind of made it work by pulling it tight and stretching my skin to its limits, and in some places putting up with a couple of tears.
I'll be honest, he looked worse than before. But what can you say to a skinless man who was putting on your skin? He seemed positively content with the outcome. 
"Hey that's a great look!" I said. "Who knew you looked so good in a boy's skin!"
That made the skinned man burst with laughter. My bloody lips almost tore with the force of his joy. I felt like saying, "Hey take it easy with those!", but thought better of it. "They're his lips now," I reminded myself. "You can't blame him for using them, now can you?"
It was strange looking at the man of former skinless fame. He had my face after all. That's how people recognised me. Wasn't it? I wondered if people would recognise him. 
Watching him made me feel sick after a while. Completely skinless or completely skinned. Was that right? I think that's the same thing. Maybe. Anyway, either way is ok but in the middle was horrifying. At least he was happy, or appeared to be, considering he was smiling through a skinless boy's previous bloody attire.
Relief was what I felt when he got off at the next stop. For I couldn't close my eyes to avoid the gruesome sight. I was skinless you see. I only had staring. Because that's the nature of things when you're skinless and lidless, waiting to bleed out on the bus.

meat

rear
rend
sunder 
cut 
from life in one
breathe in void
swallow filth
mutate to fit
tear from spilling wombs 
inject
brand
reject
sear
repeat

fledgeling flames forsake fetal futures
fucked and flayed formaldehyde freaks
thalidomide-faced abominations,
the meat

riven asunder
cut from one
tossed into void
swallowed
a perfect fit 
torn apart
mutated
to feed the flame
burnt in fear
piece of meat
rear
repeat
sear
repeat

36193

Tide bleeds toward the shore
Ravens stab at flesh
Beaks of steel in grey
Depraved unity
Torn from nests 
Unfeeling hands
Machine instinct 
on display
on display
Fueling matricide in stark morrows
Vengeance for fallen brothers 
Unfettered brutality 
Fallacy of nature 
A distant play
For all to see 
For all to see 

Chaos pulls discordant 
ends 

Crunchy Jelly

A thick ebb of darkness swallows the sun. 

A blaze of life smolders in an endless vat of black oil. 

Acrid smoke swirls in circles 

Rising as it spirals into the feral claws of a blood sky 

Bleeding itself to death onto the living. 

Life reduced to existence 

in futility. 

Mindless savagery 

Of beasts and lower beings cloaked in flesh 

Tearing and rending brothers and sisters. 

Instinct betrayed by the souls of those left to see.

No end.

  

A selfless heap of decay takes pity 

on the wicked wasteful hell-forged wind 

which wounds the weak, 

the weather-worn weary 

who whimper and wither 

in collective solitude. 

Reaped by the grim.

A scythe swings with merciless efficiency to separate the self 

and return the severed to the soulless. 

There is no sanity to be found. 

No word to be spoken. 

No glint in dead eyes. 

Only hate machines manufacturing nothing. 

Cold steel and a death grip. 

Acres of flesh and bone. 

The first and last solidarity 

Of the living now passed. 

hiss

a throbbing pulse pumps and pounds at walls of flesh and blood, 
a sack of scaled beasts emerge in bile that bubbles and bursts,
spilling forth from the sallow nest and steaming in the winter dusk,  
to slither and soil the sons of us, a surreptitious schism is thus.

viscous heads hiss and spit as fangs announce their presence,
snakes and serpents sneer and curse the sins of their existence. 

the sailing soulless sense the heels
of the credulous spirit,
as forked tongues snipe and slaver 
slicing across the surface,
to taste the warmth of copper 
and slug the sweetest sauce,
a kiss from venomous servants, 
slaves without remorse.

Recyclable

A great deal it is owed
For a lifetime spent following
A path trodden bare
By countless feet walked to the bone

By the nose it was lured 
Oh the scent of success
An alluring fragrance of decadence 
The seduction of a waning spirit

The perfume once filled with promise
Turns to an onerous odour

This confident conformity culminates
In a cruel castration of the soul

The stench of death pervades the air
As bloody feet near the perversion
Realisation dialates the senses
Here it has found the vaunted dream

A body of lies
Carrion
Feeding the starving god

A fraction of debt is paid to Mother
A corrupted vessel drained of life
Beetles, worms and soil collect 
The scraps it left in dust

A deal it made at birth
Forgotten in its youth
Avoided in its middle age
Too late to regret its loins' fruit

All it has borrowed with blood
Can not be repaid 

The stinking rich

The wealthy corpse rots