Cold Hearted

The mirror on the wall reflects a dirty image,
A bouquet of red dead roses in my right hand,
Angel chant disturbing the peace in the ancient village,
Villain, cracking neckbones for no particular reason,
In the morning, warm served cup of blood, aromatic smell, who rings my doorbell?
Clench my fists and bite my knuckles, rip my skin and flesh,
I crash through the door, digest the innocent soul,
Teeth sharp like razors, scalping the redhead Nun,
Scream so loud, you'll lose your soul, I snort it up, adrenaline rush,
Penetrated with tentacles, your veins your strings you're my puppet,
My undead army of necrophiliac rapists and merciless slayers,
Rise from your grave, feed me children bones and chickenheads,
Whiping of my shovell, I dig deep in your cobwebbed tunnel,
Wreak havoc in your interior, throw you in my brothel,
I will treat you like the whore described by Donatien,
My spiderweb contains virgins, elves and royal wealth,
The same old ritual plays in my head like pipe organs,
Sundays in church, my hand dwells in my trousers,
Aroused by the lovely voices of the old lady choir,
Expose myself for the lord above,
He cannot be blind for his own ceation,
Cooking my meals on a low flame,
Keeps it from getting hot,
Hell has frozen over,
My tender heart stays warm...

Poetry by Catacomb Villain
Read 732 times
Written on 2006-11-20 at 19:50

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But then again, maybe I'm not? Curious how your writing keeps me guessing..