It's
not right
it's
hurtful
intentions
left hanging out like broken bones jutting from
ribbons
of horribly colored flesh
limbs
burned off cauterized stumps or
looking
like carcasses blown up
but
still alive and crawling begging for something more
hands
claw shaped and digging
showing
these images is upsetting
yet
she says necessary
tears
streaming down her blackened face
it
gets you right here
right
in the ol' bread basket
right
here in the bag of oranges
tender
and pendulous
it's
not right the way they keep
doing
that to her
making
her put down her guitar
carefully
peel off the clipped on microphone
pull
out her in-ear monitors one by one
tilting
her head first to one side then to the other
her
face blank her fingers nimble but slow and careful
anticipation
making me wait
the
intentions revealed as mean-spirited harsh spiteful and cruelly blunt
smoldering
holes blown through studio walls the materials just dust now
the
skin to continue this sick array in metaphor
pulled
and drawn with stress
yet
still having the tired sag of age
it's
torture they keep saying
it's
torturous
and
so obvious
this
lust for blood or cum and such
rabid
and frothing
chomping
they churn
picking
up every drop
of
your sick shit
it's
not right
it's
hurtful
hurtling
through the broken store windows
sick
swipes at a car barely going 35
limo
black windows distorting
each
leering face leaned in toward the glass
her
hair was lovely until this shit happened
burnt
sulfur smell and singed ends
her
makeup alone took hours
and
the lights and filters the set and stage
all
these people left standing around
the
stress of knowing that at some point
this
shit would actually happen?
it's
just not right
intentionally
hurtful
such
a mean display
making
me wait
making
us wait
making
her weight
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