Dem-acrostic.

First they came for the culture,

Unelected, blue feathered vultures,

Condeming us to dock and dole,

Keen on the regime of reversing roles.

Third person Tory genocide,

Hypocritic oath - How rich?! - They decide:

"It's tough times for everybody

(Save the caviar please Jeeves, more classic hegemony)"

Castrating the few avenues,

Of complaint, we're left with no truth to choose,

Now where do I get radicalised?

Down beneath the 'Big Society' sign?

Exceptions reverse the rules, or try,

Mowed down by tanks towing the party line.

Now disaffection's the plague, the flood,

Above all, beside all, there will be blood.

Third person Tory genocide,

Ignored by the ignorant, patronised.

Only power exists to prolong itself, to protect those few.

Now the poor have come for you.

Hyperdermic.

Sex injects like local anaesthetic.
Moans and screams become my new aesthetic.
Intimate? More mutal masturbation.
Co-operotic asphyxiation.

After every binge are the same remains:
Empty vessels, bad taste, dead cells and stains.
All thought is burnt in the flames of desire.
Indulgent guilt the ashes of the fire.

Like orgasmic organic opiates,
Addiction-cum-withdrawl post-infiltrate.
The deception was the touch of lips.
My lap weren't empty 'til filled with your hips.

The only cold turkey is probably me,
To retire restraint even just for a week.
Not hard to 'have not' what you never had.
To win to know you'll lose is fucking mad.

Now, my cravings sing for sterility.
The absence of interaction for me.
Inmate? There's a vacancy in my place.
And I prune all expression from my face.

(Now all that remains is anger and hate...)

Captive Conception.

He picks up a bone,
Brings it to the bars.
And the ape looks up,
Longing to the stars.
The steel rings out one,
A division bell.
And the bars now change,
To the gates of hell.

But he has his suit,
And he has his tie.
And a guarantee,
He'll naturally die.
No more struggling,
Even less is strife.
And now he can wank,
Or can fuck his wife.

Captive conception,
The cage now demands.
And all else is sin,
With such time at hand.
So he drops his bone,
Knocks up missus ape.
And nine months pass,
She's behind white drapes.

Then wailing screaming,
A desperate act.
And a tiny shape,
Emerges intact.
"You put me back in!",
The baby ape cries.
And adds,
"I do not, want to be alive!"

One-Eyed Monster.

It's...

Hidden. The beast sleeps,
Beneath the covers,
Lips pressed to cheeks.

Frozen. Like stone idols,
Stifling their faces,
Homicidal.

He's...

Broken. His escape,
Is shaped by 'lovers',
Trade fact for fake.

Woken. A desperate sap,
Dragged to his doom,
Led by his lap.

Free Range Prisoners.

Every persons a patient.
Choke, choke, choke, till the croak.
Cadaver clean-up aisle Four:
Cosmetics, meds, no cures.
This is your life,
Ending one cell a time.

EST by CRT.
How free range is a sheep?
A hypodermic syringe,
An alcohol-free binge.
"Trapped" ain't the right word,
But it's first to mind.

These pretty prison palaces,
Furnished like old folks homes,
With zombies talking in tongues,
Everyday a re-run.
Living my life,
On the Broca Divide.

Surrender sin salvation.
Give your mind, receive sanity.
Open eyes never awake,
Wash cold sweat from your face.
Another morning,
Again, It's baptism time...