Imgormiel
Part of the furniture
- Joined
- Apr 18, 2004
- Messages
- 4,372
Massacre
I have a cinematic jukebox that chimes with a piano.
In a place which is blind to what we await. Oh…Sweet Rosie.
The bar door opens and the room sinks into quiet as I enter.
Greetings and onions, and a dark coat that reveals a pure twist of fate named machine gun.
It’s the usual sycophantic ambience, no sojourn – just the audience.
People screaming against the fear of a raining bullet choir.
Do I detect ambivalence?
Laughter or cries?
One by one, bodies dance to a rivers rhythm from dripping blood.
Bullets aimed painstakingly where a placation of functioning dendrites need not think in a past more than a pulse long gone.
How else do you expect me to kill?
Dust them all with a feather Sir said the barkeep hissing dear, oh dear – as the floor still cries.
Is a further display what you require? In my reply.
His eyes all filled with fear to which I can only respond to oblige.
I kill the Landlord and his daughter and now the whole room but two and a company down.
To complete the barrels of life for the distillery.
Trails of red footprints stepped from my ghostly shoes across the floor.
Where I pursued my victims down.
Two bullets left as a matter respect for the Landlord’s former employee.
I crack him with the gun butt mercifully across the head and put those final two to make one more dead.
The carnage now completes - But no one left to serve my Finn Mickey’s.
As the tears run down my cheeks.
I can only agree how those few minutes were fun.
How bored I am now, wondering where else I can get trigger-happy?
Turning for the next person for directions so that I can make it all happen again.
I realise everyone is dead and my gun begins to weep.
Her hunger for death. She yearns and cries for more.
With departure my only option, I promise her she will get more head.