Day 9, this one could be offensive, read at your own risk.

11.16.10

I feel restless, and distressed.

Deep in my belly, something is missing, no it’s not ice-cream.

Got something to say, question the wisdom.

Buried deep in my bosom.

There’s a dead deer head in my back alley.

Dead deer.

Dead dear.

Mommy dearest dead, head, end of sentence, executioner's hood.

To hid his face from me as he kicks the chair out from beneath me.

Decapitated dear head in my back alley.

Dead deer ripped out rib cages, freeing enslaved red hearts, tearing it apart, to engorge upon, swollen bullies.

Full of flies and maggots, I bet you thought my next line was gonna be faggot.

Red faced and pulpits

Dilated pupils

 on the dead dear head.

In  bed with me, fuck you til you plead, me

to

stop.

Tie

you

up.

Ball gag in mouth, blind fold, hold on, leather bindings 

Master and slave, make me purr.

Stirring it.

Some where there’s a deer missing it’s head with red fur, reading Sunday papers, headlining Ozzy’s latest schtick.

I prefer Suicide Silence, while I bind your feet.

Feel the meat.

Red, white vertebra, black vacant jelly jewels, 

you mewl for me to let you go.

Sew your eyes and mouth shut.

Crisis cross stitching, I rape your consciousness.

Deny your arousal, her and I, 

fucking.

Ducking your eyes roll, 

like a dead deers head, brain spasms upon across.

Some kind of loss?

Chasms in your  mortality, or mortality.

Adorned in silk, drenched in blood of the deer, wandering dimensions between pleasure and pain.

Suck on you until you came.

Pray forgiveness.

Blindness I burn your eyes out, devote in your beliefs.

Or lies.

Tied to the electric chair, ripping out your hair, I spare myself the chore, 

cleaning up after your misconception of procreation.

Burning in hell, I shave my public hair, to share with sacrificed virgins.

Tied to your electric chair, share aborted philosophies on vasectomies.

Bleed pagan symbols to put in my soup or pre- minstrel discharge, from justice.

Pro life.

Premeditated murder, there’s a dead deer in my back alley.

Burning bitches at the stake, turn the spit.

Marinating for day, as you via for control.

Sacred apple from a sacred garden, pardon while I laugh.

In the face of fantasists, willing participants in,

repression, regression, expectable aggression.

Kick my association to the dead deer’s head.

In my back alley.

Vacant jellied eyes, masked as family planning, demanding, fear tactics, thumb holed.

Behold.

A dead deer’s head in your back alley.