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Feasting

by Johnny Crimson

The priest beheaded the celebrant.
Nothing left to fucking celebrate.
The scene was all too decadent
as he began to decimate.

To the gods this sacrifice he'd dedicate
to shrink his growing deficit.
This act he'd committed was definite,
he'd need no sponsor or delegate.
The life he'd taken so delicate.

All was done to demonstrate,
how quickly one could denigrate,
the words he began to deprecate.

The river he attempted to dessicate,
he'd assigned rules to designate
the fellow who would finally detonate.

To his own civil dertriment,
he would soon learn to devistae,
the price he'd pay to educate,
her hip bones were so elegant.

He found her in the element,
riding a skinny elephant.
To gain some ground he'd elevate
while acting so damn eloquent.

Her demeanor he would emenate.
Her demise was surely eminent.
Her mannerisms he would emulate.

The situation began to escalate.

He gave the coroner his estimate
while masking his intentions and etiquette.
Although it was quite fucking evident,
they would never need to excavate.

He was feeling rather excellent,
there'd be no room for excrement.
His intentions he would explicate,
her walk was so downright exquisite.

His sins he couldn't extricate
as he would further germinate.
He didn't tend to hesitate,
though he often liked to meditate.

He had killed a fucking methodist,
without being the least bit negligent.
Her soul he began to penetrate,
his mind, the fucking pessimist.
She had grown rather petulate,
so he began to predicate.

He'd show her he's not prejudiced,
by showing his choices were prevelent.
He showed no signs of regiment,
as she was not a registrant.

There was no attempt to regulate
his actions weren't relevant.
His style he would renovate,
so no killer could ever replicate.

The evidence left was resonant
with the town's people it would resonate.
They found her pussy in the sediment.
Her organs they couldn't segregate.

He did it all for sentiment.
He would settle her of settlement.
He had acted as her specialist.

Not much room to speculate.
He did have a horrible tempermant.
He had proclaimed her dying testament.

On her loins he would vegetate, the floor boards couldn't ventilate.


10/22/2012

Posted on 10/22/2012
Copyright © 2024 Johnny Crimson

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Jody Pratt on 10/23/12 at 06:26 AM

The flow of this poem matches the tone. Dark and methodical. Great job.

Posted by George Hoerner on 10/23/12 at 01:16 PM

The 3rd line 8th stanza, I'd take out the "so". It isn't needed.

Posted by Laurie Blum on 10/23/12 at 01:58 PM

Of the poems you've written recently... so far I am partial to this one. I really like that each line ends with such interesting words. They just keep pulling me along in the poem as I wonder where you're going and I try to figure out if you got there! To me that is casically what writing is about... catching the reader's interest and then making them want to stick around and read it again.

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