Sadfalada strikes again

They are everywhere, everywhere

on pretty streets, and ugly;

on walking paths, on beaches,

in parks, playgrounds, in shops,

in flimsy backyards

or suddenly in houses we thought secure

they bolt across open space, head low,

with eyes like fixed gravel

common as stones, everywhere

we see them, adrenaline scorches the image, body becomes trembling ice

yet we are told they cannot be known, that we deny the loss and toll,

and ignorance, accept



But this is how they may be known,

by hellish roil of nightmare sound

as a living thing

we love and protect,

in futile struggle, is ground down to death

and that death isn't quick, it's meant to prolong

the display of bloodcraft, the Raveners song

but this unknown actor works in silence,

the chorus provides him with shrieks and screams and blows, he will not relent

till costumed in blood and shreds of a dying soul

and is hurried from the scene by his keeper, grinning in furtive pride

and bloody footprints follow

like rose petals and confetti



Out on any busy midday street another performance is unfolding

in a cluster of anguish, the chorus of watchers heave

and lunge, in panic and horror

the dog unmoving and silent

as a little grey poodle is throttled

and lies flattened as an

Irregular shadow on the pavement

his only life a strangled thin scream

a fraying ribbon tying him to life

clinging to it as he is gripped

the throat

a throat no larger than a child's wrist

rising and falling with his owner's own shrieks

as he was thrashed into the sidewalk he had walked so happily

and his silly, soft curls

made him look like a child's frivolous plaything

Now broken, old, discarded, nothing

The bulldog, the bulldog

Is unadorned, as befits his task

he wears a metal collar and

on his huge head is marked

a death mask

and his thick mineral skull

Unassailable and cruel

digs down it's stone weight

to gnaw, shake, and chew

the slaps, tugs, and splashing

does nothing to deter

he thinks it only due his dire work

receive the honor

his owner still straddles him,

that gargoyle to buttress

and whines and tugs, and knocks

his head

tells him time to soon desist

when then the poodle escapes, and scrambles free

it's joy in life forever tainted

but the bulldog in his owners grasp

Is raised upright as though sainted

and put on view between her legs

it's meaty forelegs spread stiffly wide

as though to show her dog was braced

for contender or for homicide

a steroidal toad, might think some not in the Pit troops

an unnatural creature for delusional dupes.