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Vengance Is Mine.

Updated on May 14, 2022
MFB III profile image

I have written over 4,000 poems and 1,000 songs and yet I am still searching for that perfect poem or song which eludes me.

Society will reach a point where such sick and sexually deviant men will simply be executed with no fanfare by the family members of the victims.

Vengeance Is Mine.

All rights denied!!

Sitting in the park at dusk, 
high heels pinching my wide feet, 
my dress slightly wadded and lumpy 
beneath my padded derriere. 
My bra like a strait jacket 
its protrusions grazing my 
untrained arms at every move. 
The wig sweaty and hot, 
the musk of my perfume sticky sweet, 
wanting so badly to 
adjust a non-public area, 
but it would not be ladylike. 
Two hours pass in purgatory 
hard slats stretched under 
a much harder slut, 
posing in a nap-like state, 
a wo-mannequin propped 
up for display. 
Then suddenly  the bushes 
crackle, just to the left of 
my clip-on earring. 
Long manicured, bright red 
fingertips reach for the 
hidden 44 magnum, 
slipping its thick barrel 
between the juncture 
of my damn, tight stockings. 
The moment draws near, 
then a grimy, overly hairy hand 
clamps over my painted lips, 
as the scum-bucket behind me 
whispers, "Don't scream, Don't move, 
or I'll cut ya." 
I freeze in my sweat-stained costume, 
as he works his way around me, 
and allow him to take my right hand, 
and place it on his swollen need. 
It was just becoming a large part 
of his night under his 
grease stained jeans. 
His right hand holds a knife 
loosely against my neck, 
as he commands me to unzip him, 
His eyes close in ecstasy as 
I grip him tight through the cloth, 
my disgust curling in my gut, 
vomit rising like a barometer i
n my dry throat. 
Then quickly my 44 magnum rises, 
like the smoothly oiled shaft 
of a machine recently turned on, 
and it explodes, crotch level 
into his suddenly shriveling manhood. 
He collapses with a scream of 
sheer agony as I quickly kick 
off my high heels and drive one 
into his left eye. 
Then I dash for my car, 
noting that no one else is around, 
in this place that's lately been 
labeled "Predator Park." 
I drive to the cemetery where 
my wife's remains remain, 
brutally raped just months ago 
while jogging in that park, 
and then sadly, she committed suicide. 
I bury the gun deep in the fresh 
dirt of her recent grave... 
smoothing it over carefully, 
and planting several geraniums over top. 
Then it's home, to a sleep that has 
long eluded me, after washing off 
the stench of a maggot squashed 
and burning my female accouterments 
in the wood stove of my den. 
Next week I'll prepare again, 
for some more poetic justice, 
in the freshly painted face 
of a woman being scorned. 
Hell hath No Fury

© 2009 Matthew Frederick Blowers III


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