True Crime

 

Take a tour of the theme park of murderous

gruesome crimes and have a dead good time.

A day trip to the West's house of terror,

where you are led

to find the bones of the dead.

Like a giant sized whack a mole

to show you where to dig a hole.

 

Make your reservations

at the basement restaurant

of the Fritzl hotel.

Where your food is served cold,

bread and water in a tin bowl.

Locked up

In your own private prison cell.

 

Have a go at hook a crook.

Take your fishing rod and test your luck.

You can win a fish in a bag,

or if you wish a cuddly toy.

There are many designs to enjoy.

 

Ride the press merry-go-round.

24 hours a day, breaking news inbound.

It never turns off or stops,

we can't even trust the cops.

The wheels keep turning,

they say that crime doesn't pay,

but a book deal is on its way.

 

Take a walk through the gift shop.

WE HAVE EVERYTHING IN STOCK.

Bullets emblazoned

with all the names you can reel off.

Nilsen, Bundy, Dahmer, Allitt, Brady

Sutcliffe, Shipman, Gacy.

The names keep coming.

You can have them on mugs,

pepper pots, toby jugs.

Keep the tills ringing today,

but remember that crime doesn't pay.

 

We put so much celebrity

into murder and torture.

Rather than praising our heroes

we praise the zeros

that kill, maim and demand fame,

for some sadistic game.

We know all the killers by name

but of the victims can we say the same?

 

Netflix and chill

watching psychopaths kill.

Documentaries speak of their gruesome deeds

with bloodstained vivid imagery.

Victims barely mentioned by name.

The celebrity

Is the one with the sharpened blade.

 

 

Thanks for reading,

Peace, Love and Poetry

Kyle.

Purgatory

 

Took the long walk through purgatory,

souls around me screaming.

Lonely echoes of old moans.

Only I can make this journey,

alone with tired bones.

Along this aching path,

snaking through my history.

Past every mistake,

every cruel hand of fate.

To find what awaits

as I lay my hand on the exit gate.

 

I took every memory in my stride.

Saw so many missteps,

cracked pavements,

I've tripped,

slipped and lost self-respect,

but some moments that brought pride.

I took routes I never expected to find, 

pathways through sharp bramble bushes,

blood encrusted.

 

I took every turn in the winding pathway.

Every narrow vein through this figure of decay.

Every airway and artery I travelled,

like a blood cell through this body unravelled.

Saw each synapse collapse

and my life light flicker out

at every footstep into the past

and each moment of self doubt.

 

I saw seven layers of hell

beneath my feet,

I watched demons give beatings.

I saw arms outreached,

begging for relief

but there was no peace.

 

I took it all in,

every sin

every loss

every win.

I expected I had hell to pay.

There was no way I'd get to meet my judgement day

without a few beatings along the way.

But I never expected to be told to return from whence I came

although I'd walked this path of flame,

my time was not yet up

and I woke again,

my feet aching 

and my lungs full of soot.

 

 

Thanks for reading,

Peace, Love and Poetry

Kyle

Loopholes

 

Bank vault island paradise,

property market price rise.

Profit over morals,

theft of our rights.

Riches stored,

bending the law.

Just sitting there,

undeclared.

No care for the poor,

or help to restore.

 

Loopholes to hide behind,

profit goals underlined,

blind to the needs of humankind.

Their only care,

numbers in the air,

digits that declare

that a billionaire is here.

 

Austerity measures

tower over like a bad dream,

yet the building

is just a tax avoidance scheme.

Scrimping and scraping,

just to survive.

Whilst the rats

huddle together and thrive.

So that the rich stay richer,

whilst the rest of us

wither in the grave much quicker.

 

We're in this together,

except we're not really, are we?

For most of us

don't have a private island

complete with deep blue sea.

Nor a yacht

that we will never sail upon,

just to show our status and wealth.

Yet it’s us that must pay,

not the ones that hide their billions

with stealth.

 

Thanks For Reading,

Peace, Love and Poetry.

Kyle.

Shady lanes

 

Down Shady lanes

by the haze of night.

Through cemetery gates

under silver moonlight.

Across dampened grass

in the shadow of brickwork

finished with stained glass.

Where the phantoms lurk.

 

Crooked streets,

old harbour sounds.

Grizzled men retreat

when the ghosts are around.

Menacing clouds hang

iron coloured coverings.

Fearful pangs

as the rain stings.

 

Hilltop carpark

looks over the town below,

where downward rivers of rain flow.

Such a sight to behold,

twinkling streetlights

Like reflections of dead stars of old.

Breath misty from the cold lashing rain

like the ghosts that walk these dark lonely lanes.

 

In the distance thunder booms,

clouds loom,

like snow-capped mountains of melancholy.

Silver tipped summits

against the inky blues of squally nights.

Filling the canvas of the sky in sight.

Mist swirls the view

we amble through

the streets below.

Listening to the sounds of history as we go.

 

 

 

Thanks for reading.

 Peace, Love and Poetry

Kyle