The Impoverishment of Fecaliths, or Take Your Medecine

Dean J. Baker - Poetry, and prose poems

All this incessant chatter in regards
to storms, floods, hurricanes, tornadoes
in Texas, Florida, the Carolinas doesn’t say
you can make it as long as you’re not
poor; otherwise, be a hero
not a victim of socialized government, that
blue-dress devil taking away
your vaunted independence, plucking out
eyes, ripping limbs and tossing discussion
like kites into trees riding the waves

Until you cannot believe this isn’t 1776
without progress from hypnotized ideology,
where the idea is of greater consequence
than any claim chewed on for centuries
so we must have cerebral febrilities
masquerading as application when sick, unable
to do anything much by the limiting power
of low wages, you must remain constrained
be vulnerable, perhaps die
maybe lose everything, the ability to enjoy

Because the idle elite of whom you alone
are the greater portion discuss
meaning, how to grant
what’s already your own, untrusting each
not to…

View original post 51 more words

Advertisements

Karla Monster

image from twitter account
kh

 

Poor Paul. All he could do was rape. What a thrill
to subjugate. Karla whispered to him, ‘I like to eat
pussy, you know. You can be king, deciding fates.
I will be the Queen of their souls.’ Paul was decided.

Previously all he had done was rape and beat, now
he’d have some fun. Own the instruments of doom,
be their final sun who would love him so: his wife,
mother to the squall of children, would make him right.

To kill, to take the life possessed; absorb the sweet
trembling flesh into his own: finally, born again. All
by the sexy frau revealing greatness: what he’d
been missing by strike and run, rabbit. Gone, again.

Poor stupid Paul. Karla ruling after all. In charge
of schemes where he’d be set to take the major blame.
Misled, beaten, so what the hell: the prizes a once
in a lifetime gift that didn’t have to be replaced.

Solicitous, knowing innocence, hooking fish. Come
with me and see the world of my malignant cunt,
she’d think. I’ve done my sister but the bitch died.
So maybe repeated death repays that mistake.

Sweet blonde, for whom to eat was to die. Feed
that twat like I’d eat your breath. Queen Tarantula
in the web of bliss where slaves obey: yet
disbelieved, must by King Paul’s rope strangulate.

And afterwards shaken up eliciting tears and muff,
men trolled in clubs while cops powerless watch. The beaten
girl in the skirt, the evil bride: o holy slut, you lie.
Put on trial by men who rush to judgement, then she smiles.

Prison camp and more muff. Any who aren’t tough
enough, she’ll rule til they choose or die. Another idiot
afterwards giving children; a paradise of life in
the Caribbean, perhaps Quebec, ticked away in suburbia.

Those girls aren’t women. Even her sister, amidst the
stupid Paul’s crimes. Karla knows the masque complete,
her existence a taunt of defeat, eating ordinariness. Listen,
you can hear her laugh same as when those kids died.

She breathes, she enjoys, the dresses up.
Seductively pleasing, hooked one more willingly who’s
complicitous. Of course it can’t be we’re guilty, too
that she’s on top of the world, minus common work.

But this does please her to be known, alive
with her victims dust. You and I undone, she just hasn’t
yet gotten around to: so sufficient that we rage inside,
against the night she brings to choke the life out of us.

©Dean  Baker

-excerpt from BLOOD UPON THE MOON, 132 pages, $18.99

 

*Paul is Paul Bernardo. Former Scarborough rapist never caught; met Karla Homolka
and married. She’d volunteer for ‘his’ ideas to kidnap, torture and sexually abuse teenage schoolgirls.
They also killed her sister by feeding her drugs while Karla had sex with her.
They videotaped it all. Hid the tapes in their house. He was caught; she suspected, with detectives – and journalists present in clubs -watching for days she still picked up men for casual sex.
The government made a deal with her pleading a victim of his: the innocent bride beaten up and manipulated, because the cops did not find the tapes in their house til afterwards.
Given that he raped and ran, did not kill, it’s believed through evidence of the tapes she manipulated him into willful events, and really was in charge of the schemes and murders and didn’t mind taking some beatings to establish that as a fact.
He got life. She did a plea deal for 12 years.
She’s out living in the open, with children.

  • click on the photo to get the book

<–latest poetry

latest satire/social commentary, etc  Tormenting The Monkey, 218 pages, everything politically incorrect $16.99

 

http://www.amazon.com/Dean-J.-Baker/e/B00IC6PGQM

join my Facebook Fan Club https://www.facebook.com/DeanJBakerPoetAuthorComposer