deepundergroundpoetry.com
Angel Slayer
I cut out the angel's heart
and held its throb in my hand
it made that cute soft squidgy sound
a cross between a gurgle and a murmur
like a bloody red hummingbird
just another notch in the darkness
feebly beating its wings one last time
a bit sticky but all in a night's work
My blood has always been the purest black
I take pride in my job
and the intensity of my own hatred
for these so called soldiers of God
is grosser than the ego of the fattest poet mortal
I guess it's a talent
something I was born with
So I wiped my mouth
on that disgusting angel redness
spat out its shuddering soul
and cast its shrieks to the void
Not much peace and light
down there in the shredder
Now that's my kind of fly by
Did you see the way she splattered up
when she hit?
Mortals don't matter to us
they moan and sigh
they shit themselves
and begin whimpering
long before death's cradle
starts its rocking
It's always no contest
now where's the sport in that?
But angels
they always try to fight
some even have swords
and it says in that book of theirs
(it's against my principles to refer to it
by name)
they ride around in shiny gold chariots
drawn by teams of winged white horses
although in the last 2000 years
I never saw one
After God died
we've been steadily picking them off
The angels do their best to hide
ducking in and out of the clouds
which makes it even more fun
When you trap one
you hold it by the nose with your claws
snap off the wings
skin it alive
and then rip it to pieces
real slow
in the end it's a bit like dancing
with a little red rag
Ever swallowed a halo?
They hate that
those dirty shining fuckers
and held its throb in my hand
it made that cute soft squidgy sound
a cross between a gurgle and a murmur
like a bloody red hummingbird
just another notch in the darkness
feebly beating its wings one last time
a bit sticky but all in a night's work
My blood has always been the purest black
I take pride in my job
and the intensity of my own hatred
for these so called soldiers of God
is grosser than the ego of the fattest poet mortal
I guess it's a talent
something I was born with
So I wiped my mouth
on that disgusting angel redness
spat out its shuddering soul
and cast its shrieks to the void
Not much peace and light
down there in the shredder
Now that's my kind of fly by
Did you see the way she splattered up
when she hit?
Mortals don't matter to us
they moan and sigh
they shit themselves
and begin whimpering
long before death's cradle
starts its rocking
It's always no contest
now where's the sport in that?
But angels
they always try to fight
some even have swords
and it says in that book of theirs
(it's against my principles to refer to it
by name)
they ride around in shiny gold chariots
drawn by teams of winged white horses
although in the last 2000 years
I never saw one
After God died
we've been steadily picking them off
The angels do their best to hide
ducking in and out of the clouds
which makes it even more fun
When you trap one
you hold it by the nose with your claws
snap off the wings
skin it alive
and then rip it to pieces
real slow
in the end it's a bit like dancing
with a little red rag
Ever swallowed a halo?
They hate that
those dirty shining fuckers
Published 9th Mar 2010
| Edited 19th Jul 2012
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 3
reading list entries 3
comments 6
reads 1173
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The author encourages honest critique.
9th Mar 2010 5:33pm
Intense imagery of the most powerful kind.. Amazing metaphors..
This is pure brilliance, I don't even know what to say to show my appreciation for it.. Seriously Abra, this is beyond extraordinary.. It's a masterpiece.
This is pure brilliance, I don't even know what to say to show my appreciation for it.. Seriously Abra, this is beyond extraordinary.. It's a masterpiece.
9th Mar 2010 6:40pm
Always a thrill to receive your comment Arryn - and especially moreso as you like this poem so much. Thank you once again.
9th Mar 2010 6:16pm
9th Mar 2010 6:42pm
Thank you for reading and taking the trouble to leave a comment. I know what you mean - and I do go darker sometimes. Welcome to DUP by the way, hope to see some of your own poems.
Anonymous
12th Mar 2010 3:06am
sound of an axe striking the back of some poor soul's bare neck, and this finely crafted verse bristles with metaphorical energy and wit. Overall, it serves as a wonderful expression of society's downfall and how good is often crushed by the angrier influence of evil. Loved the "bloody red hummingbird" and "death cradle" lines. Fantastic.
12th Mar 2010 9:34am
Has society fallen down - curses nobody told me, Jack. I thought the world was meant to be like this. Thanks for the great feedback.
