Happy 2015 birthday, Daddy.

I made the lemonade for you.


I rise early for work
King’s birthday is today;
he thirsts.

I head to the block
Draw my serrated edge
Bring out the strainer mesh

It is time to chose the victims.

We keep them,
the heads,

Dead for time
It is high-while i finished the “job”
Before the remains stink sour.

Forty-two bloated faces
Black-PusheD eyes Bulge
On either side.

Take them, nestle their cold skins
soft and bony
to the wash-trough.

Mold fast flourishes upon
their visage, these dead.
Their smellllllllllllllllll
Must be drain-drank.

Wax-like, pores wide,
filling, pooling, running
water unabsorbed
to clean the victim’s blemishes.

Drip. Flop.
Dryrack. Smack.
I lay them
lolling and rolling
two- by- two
side by side
in a line.

Neckless horrors.
It stretches long
like one of those lines
for carnival rides

Snatch up one
who stares back and back
at me
and place it, him, her,
Round and wobbling
balanced on a curve

UpOn the white block.

i raise. teeth
gleam long and gnawing
in my hand
It makes the contact

Skin under Sharp
Skull under Brute


through and through
sawing HARD

until the Knife drags away,
perfect line
leaving straight strip
gleaming and shiny

like a slug trail of
glimmering head juice.

Severed halves tremble,
fleshy and oozing
half and half



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