A Duty to Brutality

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Pseudo Echo “His Eyes”

little pig
little pig
you may wish to let us in
or we’ll huff and we’ll puff
blow your house the fuck in
haven’t come here to play
at least not in the way you may be thinking
don’t you dare go blinking
we’ll make sure you do not miss a single trick kid

funny games ain’t our style you see
just don’t match the profile
there are matters far more pressing
and it’s our role to address them
no less than thorough in our method
one of madness no question
while the hinges that slacken
are the very doorways that we blacken

it’s a passion of ours
in the blackest of hours
to arouse your deep suspicion
no request made for permission
extradition conclusive
non conducive to resistance
reputedly most putrid
and we have no great desire to keep our distance

would be ill-advised to tempt us
what can we say we’re easily led
can be bona fide relentless
as we burn you alive as you sleep in your bed
like an itch we are longing to scratch
sporting a big-boned hard-on for dispatch
every last gasp is a heartbeat to snatch
as we snuff out the lights in a flash

do or don’t
you are damned either way
so what do you say we cut directly to the chase
far too late for saving graces
and make absolutely no mistake
this next gush of vomit will be leaving chronic stain

your personal space – our stale breath on your face – your most persistent fears – well we’re standing right here – vicious cunts through and through – it must suck to be you – as we could fuck both those sockets straight through – fashion a dense river of deepest red grue – should we wish to

we may decide to grant you a single wish prior to dying
then perhaps we’ll tar and feather you
that could prove gratifying
identifying weakness shouldn’t prove too mystifying
as we already know you pissed your pants
and don’t even think of denying it

our prying eyes will find you out
and should the meat be sweet
we’ll grind it out
no need to kill time trimming rind
for we won’t leave a piece behind
and besides, that membrane would look mighty becoming
stretched taut as new skin for our drum kit
of course, we’ll be needing some trick sticks
and here are some bleeding statistics
you see, there are twenty four ribs in the mix
each one of them begging to be picked
which reminds us
we’re also running short on fiddle strings

slicing some eyeballs could prove rather delightful
our rusted aged scalpel is as blunt as it’s frightful
two swift incisions with surgical precision
plus one pinch of the septum
equates to no more need for the optician
there is always crucifixion
inverted of course
that way we can slit you from gullet to gut
fist fuck with a gauntlet of thorns
get stuck in a rut
until enough is enough
for main course comprises slaughter
with a side-order of snuff

if you’ve not already guessed
we are no less than insatiable
sane minds non-debatable
we need not seek asylum
no straitjacket can restrain us
leaning left to ultra-violence
and besides, it couldn’t matter any less whatever motive you provide us
no trial and error here kid
just the most ungodly stink
a duty to brutality
and a hundred and one reasons left to sin

Richard Charles Stevens

Keeper of The Crimson Quill

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