PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

That kind cannot avoid the least temptation
to show off with dramatic ostentation;
like self-styled titles---"master," "sir," or "lord"---
to demonstrate a studied dominance
expressing, outwardly, crass arrogance:
especially this one, the Painter, Mord.
His models, having given their consent,
were collared in an abject slavery;
and, for his pleasure, suffered pain, torment
and fear---to bring them to humility.
This, and the paintings, broke each model's soul.
Such cruelty is unacceptable
to us.  We stormed the castle, one fine night,
and through its darkness swung a blazoned light.
Breaking their collars, we set each girl free
as he watched (pinnacled, gagged, and aghast).
Each spit upon him as she sauntered by.
Bound, now, his ego had no place to swell,
except into the smoking pit of hell
that now enlarged itself to take him in,
for all the grim perversions that had been
performed here, or depicted from true sight.
We told him that he was about to die---
but not too quickly; oh, no, not as fast
as he would later wish.  We made it last
until the dawn, until he moaned for death.
(We laughed and worked ourselves right out of breath.)
Who had disdained compassion, courtesy
and mercy as a coward's pipe dreams---he
could not even express a whispered plea:
missing, by that late hour, his tongue and lips;
fingers and toes all broken, and their tips
scorched, first by scented candles' dancing flame.
Worn out just as the morning's bright sun came
up, and the last of castled shadows fled,
we quickly stomped the brains out of his head.