Brizell B – Ben Brizell

Gusset
 
Serenity’s been
breached,
it lies bruised and beaten.
The lies of masculinity
have been
inseminated
into the grove.
 
We’re bleeding to death,
clutching the wound,
pushing our entrails back in.
 
Somebody
hacked their right foot off
amongst
blooming flowers
 
There’s an apple
with its core missing
Somebody’s mouth
is wet with saliva.
 
Time
took the postman’s child
so the postman
took a knife to his arterial veins
 
Preach
what you believe
because the truth is
it’ll be an outdated statement
to
tomorrow’s lacerations.
 
They flayed the revolutionaries
hung them upon meat hooks
on Highway 12
Their dried blood
stains the sun-bruised roads.
Modernity created this art piece
of old-age brutality
Give it all the applause.
 
The Worm
(or so they say)
was shot in the throat
the blood poured
from what was
childhood’s innocence.
 
I want to cry but nothing
comes out
 
Kill your family
before
they kill you
 
Bring down the borders
let humanity in.
 
A preordained
existence of revolt
 
A misguided honesty
Bloody lube
Violent indiscretions
 
The circus plays out
in the heartland of extremist America
There’s a litany of heinous crimes
being committed.
Any sense of reality crumbles
at the slightest touch.
If fascism doesn’t take you alive,
then climate change will.
 
Strap me down to the operating table
Screaming and shouting
Cut me open
Make a cuban link
from my intestines.
The butcher’s
a jeweller now.
 
The buildings fell
in consecutive succession.
The workers asked for their break
amidst the chaos
but minimum wage
has no intention of playing fair.
 
A naked body
Stuffed into a suitcase
in a moscow flat
slit throat
long since dead.
Sorrow doesn’t bring back
the dead.
 
They
Search the web as blissful as could be
for suicide techniques
but only manage to find more evidence
for the impeachment of Trump.
 
Broken terror,
black eyed haven,
white America crucifying its orrifices
with the booming sex toy industry
 
The damaged teenager
slowly cuts the legs off a squirrel and
turns it into a trophy
All the while contemplating
massacring the local congregation
before dinner.
 
Reality blisters,
daring to place importance
on virginity.
 
Mummy might be bringing home the cheddar
but daddy’s cooking up something good in  the basement
he’s been murdering and eating
the newborn babies of homeless prostitutes
that the new-fangled social services failed to house and protect.
 
His own children
sit upstairs eating dinner
They don’t hear the natal screams
Born into pain
Dying in pain
It’s a ruthless cycle.
There’s no questions asked
about the harm of coming into existence,
so they argue that it’s fine.
 
Grind up the organs
but
tattoo the fresh flesh
as a pre-performance ritual
 
Alcohol
Pills
Razors
 
Pushing down
on the eyes,
out spills
the vitreous humour.
 
Finally
eyeless.
 
In blindness
there is
deniability.
 
Consume the gore
of
citizenship
 
Choke
on the
bile
of true love’s lies
 
It’s a bleak, painful world
Exhaustion befits my final moments
Death overwhelms me
and
I take the razor
to my throat
 
A ferocious slice
 
The blood trickles down onto my chest,
it feels good to finally be understood
To finally be at one.
 
Life is death
Death is life.
 
I awaken
covered in feverous
sweat.
 



 

I write poetry and prose, some of which has been published. I live in Hesketh Bank, UK.I also write a blog- Ben Brizell Writings- https://benbrizellwritings.com

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