A genre of publicly-traded companies is Horror
with much higher death counts.
They “cut” and “slash” better than Kruger or Jason ever could
‘cause they kill by the thousands
in dark-colored tailored suits at a long table
in a room with views with views.
Macy’s is “cutting” 10,000 jobs
the New York Times tells its readers.
See, no kitchen blade borrowed from a homeowner’s block
no blades for fingers—
just a pen.
The CEOs get raises for taking care of shareholders
while retail workers fold clothing to be unfolded again
while the money to fold gets less and less
while Republicans cry for less regulations
while people are being folded over
lost in the darkness of a crease.
“Shareholder value” is their concern.
So they cut and slash and crush
until gore is brought to a new level:
The Walking Dead team is envious.
Alchemists are envious as well:
the CEOs of corporations like Walmart
have turned blood into gold.
And automation is their next step;
they want to kill efficiently like the Nazis:
planned, structured, and documented.
So, what do we do?
We fight for the best jobs by going to college
and getting surrounded by debt
(while they’ve paid 0% interest for over a decade)
until we make it to the top,
and once we do,
we stare at the scars along our body
and start our own killing sprees.
“Okay, I will,” he blithely responded.
“Yea, you do that,” she smiled. “Wait, what are you—”
“Oh my God,” she whispered.
Taking out a scalpel, he looks down at his chest;
now looking at her, he slowly runs the scalpel,
starting above the collar bone, right in the middle of his chest
down to where the ribs end their protection.
Blood flows out of him like bats out for a hunt.
He places the scalpel on a floating, shiny, metallic table lined with wax paper.
A detached hand passes him the rib spreaders.
As he cranks, his bones crack like dry wood being snapped in a forest.
Locking the mechanics in place, still staring at her,
not needing to look down, like a practiced guitarist,
he rips his heart out of his chest cavity,
squeezing the organ out of its beats,
and takes a giant, teeth-sewing bite,
creating sounds of crushing moist flesh—
almost the melody of biting into a tough orange.
Blood runs from the corners of his mouth;
He licks every drop that escaped his quivering tongue:
closing his heavy lids to truly take in the taste of salt and iron
as the blood runs and dries along his throat.
Upon opening his eyes, she’s still frozen.
Holding out his heart with a teeth impression a dentist could use,
he offers her a bite.
She looked hungry.
I’m going to kick 2017’s ass
so hard the 7 will become a lightning bolt.
And don’t act like you didn’t know, the 7 is the ass of 2017.
I’m going to kick 2017’s stomach
so hard the 1 will become a “less than” sign for a math equation.
And don’t act like you didn’t know, the 1 is the stomach of 2017.
I’m going to kick 2017’s head
so hard the 0 will become a thick c.
And don’t act like you didn’t know, the 0 is the head of 2017.
I’m going to kick 2017’s legs
so hard the 2 will become a half a clothes hanger.
And don’t act like you didn’t know, the 2 is the legs of 2017.
But I wonder, what will I turn into when 2017 kicks back…