PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Today, we will due a couple of young faggots.

Yesterday, we thoroughly cleaned the instruments:

torture must be performed with clean instruments

for the agony to be thorough.  Today, we will

torture a couple of young queers, adolescents---

defiant, most adamant in refusal to show any fear,

any remorse for the subversive lifestyle

that we (and all good moral people like us revile).

They say they love---they have even married---each other:

they say no matter what we do to them, we cannot smother

their love which, they say, will outlast their bodies,

I say it will not outlast what is left of their bodies,

those long-haired, slender, and very adolescent bodies,

before, again tomorrow, we will have to clean the instruments.

Today we will do them; for them, it is long overdue.

The bodies of a couple of teenaged queers are no different

than any of the other bodies now buried in the garden

except for the way those two have debauched their flesh:

compared to the dire damage they have done to their souls,

what havoc can I wreak upon their bodies worse than that?

I have forgotten whether to pull the nails out of their

fingers and toes, before we break each individual finger and

toe in order to break this heinous lifestyle which festers

like a gangrene in the body politic.  The doctor will

meet with me in the garden (as soon as we have clocked in and

pledged our allegiance to the Brass Fitter):  he does not

care to enter the torture chamber, saying that his presence

there as a healer is anomalous.  But are we not healing the

ills of the society we are making great again, by removing the

infectors---like two pretty-boys whom we will make ugly today.

Cunning landscapers designed this facility---one of the many

that our recent permissive tolerance has made necessary, so that

we may undertake the well coordinated and entirely extraordinary

correction that will make our nation great again.  When you

stand in the garden's mathematical center, you cannot see

either the operational areas, in that there direction, or the

trenchfield of unmarked mass graves in the other direction.  If,

however, the day is still and silent, and no wind is blowing, and no

locomotive is chuffing to haul a train of box cars into the main

reception area, you can hear the screams that accompany our sort of

processing---if, of course, those throats remain intact enough to

scream.  What I have planned for these two fruitless fairies,

whose wings will be most effectively clipped (most likely before

lunch:  are you available?---that new deli offers specials) will not

damage their throats.  If their eyes are put out, I wonder, will they

still be able to shed tears for the many pains we draw them through?

The Brass Fitter directs:  we will show no mercy to even a few.

Their suffering is long overdue.