The Brutal Violins

his head's above the water now
bobbing along like a little duckling
he'll serve as cannon fodder/prow
as we beach this big old thing
the rocks smashed across his brow
and now his brains are leaking
no matter he softened the blow to our bow
and kept our ship from sinking



Good plots require lots of paper
barrels of ink, sharp sickles and blood
collusion renders all dark plans weaker
as so many molehills before a flood
so we plan and jot our plots in sands
then bury all the remains in the mud



we peel and listen for the squeals
delightful slick and rubbery
bloody pain and torturing!
the tools of all our ecstasy?
a melon baller sharpened,
a pair of tongs red hot in coals
your fluids and dreams escaping
as we carve you to fit our perfect mold



everybody fades out and blends
each plays at differentiation as avocation
a game of picking up names and stations
for a climaxing hero's presentation
well up until each end