General No More
They don't smell poisoned
but their words give them away;
About six feet tall,
Covered in hand-hammered silver,
General Semyazah rocks
In the quiet of his bunker,
Collected killers
Instead of baseball cards;
Slaved souls bound
In the comforts
Of their mental restraints.
Slicing through bars
With the Black Blade,
I circle him
So half the time
He's talking to empty air
His lips do a little micro-twitch
While I nurse out a nic-fit.
I'd strangle the Pope for a smoke
If jean pocket money
Got too close to empty
The cigarette crave
Was now in control;
A wave of bullets
Blast fist-size chunks
Giving him a name-change
To General No More.
Giant Phil
Coming at us,
One shade less than furious,
Buckshot hurricane
Of angered wasps.
They make us shake
Like Japanese schoolgirls
At a zombie flick.
Undercover bacon in the crowd;
Skidding to a hard stop,
We pocket our felonies;
Too dangerous to keep around.
The crew shows a lot of teeth
Sawing commands,
Razor-like,
Impersonating Sam Spade
For competition points.
"Evening, Phil!"
Even when too high to stand still,
He wins this race
With a boxer's strength
And award-winning dancer's grace.
We only needed one giant
To send them all buzzing
Back to their hives
Where they belonged.
Girls' Night Out
One hundred and sixty-five pre-Adamite men
Couldn't prevent her willed designs
To make the rounds
In heavy,
Indignant jewelry;
Pulling along
Her ginger-haired accomplice;
A female counterpart
To the male's strategic wing man.
Her dancing hair-do,
A deliberate fraud,
Announced her appearance
Before she could do so herself.
Earlier,
It was to be
The coffee-colored occult essentials
She wisely chose to dress in.
A common choice
Picked for her casual night of sin,
A bee-line
For the reservation
Made at her dear poet's resort;
A place
That promised to be clean
Of all unsavory,
Oil rigging paws,
And a secret well-kept
From the cheating bankers' winks
And spiked drinks.
A guaranteed rendezvous
With a specific form
Who defied those boring sexual norms
And became
That night's answer
To the attending satiation;
Unmarred
By pre-visioned;
Sterling,
Accuracy.
With the agreed-upon secret knock,
Used by her ginger-haired protector
From an unwanted public revelation
Of her
Particular hedonistic bent.
God Can't Save The Queen
With arched eyebrow
And poisoned look
The following event
The Scribe described...
Evening had painted the sky purple;
An army of Super Tramps
Have stripped the Queen bare.
Her Royal tresses,
Now bedraggled and unkempt;
Her cheeks,
Tear-stained and raw.
Physical charm
Met with steel ambition,
Ommitting unpardonable sin
For the enviable win.
This was the culprit
For such radical switch;
Leaving the slide
And switching to glide...
Free now,
These electric trons;
From that atomic orbital grip.
Consumed
With loyalty to the throne
And no more place
To call their home,
Consumed,
Now, these shortest straws,
In furnace's belly
And fire's jaws.
These soldiers of fortune
Turned tail,
Scampering off
To land
Of milk and honey
And bevy
Of Bud's wiser girls...
