A Feast for Wolves in the City of Angels (by Poetic-Realm)

By Malice In Wonderland

I did all I could
for myself here.
Really, I did.
You see, its the ravaging bones
grinding upon cavities
and enamel
that very few can truly see.

You see, its eating away at me
to be here next to this danger, as it has
probably already eaten you.

We take what is not lost,
and prepare ourselves for the
clattering crank
to echo about our chasm.

The teeth are hooked inwards,
meant to catch and latch,
until either the teeth break
or the will does.

Each breath I take
is stolen by the mouth that
holds these weapons together.

I can only breathe the smog I
it serves as my air and my
but I chase plump-shaped hips
and heels;
striking the ones too dressed to run.

Gnawing on their lives
for being foolish enough
to look pleasing in the muck
and the mire of fame and

Creation follows the beat of failure's screams.

Failure shrieks out to victory like
a brother forced to take the blame.

Victory is one ear with no drum
and a million screamers still unheard.

We are all hungry for
but here, the feast is accounted
and premade for the few.

without hunger
have never missed a meal,
while those starved to death
become glazed, cut open
and stuffed with excuses
and prescription-induced hormones.

I strike the ground in anger,
the angels can hear me, (but)
the wolves draw near me.

Really, I did.
I did all I could
for myself here.
But it wasn't enough,
it wasn't meant to be.

The angels left their city
when the wolves put
distraction squares
in each and every room.

How can you know you have
when the steps were sanded
before your poor soles could climb them?

They set the traps and
the angels lifted their skirts to
escape the tar
that began spilling from the
half-opened mouths of every
quitter within one square mile.

At least from down here,
where those forgotten
that can only be seen
through a rotten screen,
I can see
just how pretty it looks under
those wholly holy gates of

The only way to
have a little fun
around here is to
Lick a finger,
caress angelic purity's
strangest of curves,
Cum into a sock
and toss it aside.

They know though,
that too much fun
dulls the sharpness required
to live in the shadow of

The nest has no savior;
only wolves,
unwilling angels,
and a blade-
sharpened mind.

The final battle I fully bloom
is before me. I have acquired, sneakily,
an edge on the opposition,
an enigma to wield before the
and a phantom following my

Prey is my skin,
but through the shadows
of every wrong move,
pent up and wheezing
with regret and return,
you will find my steed.

And if you cannot kill the pack that
surrounds you,
find the swelling steed
who will offer you
Just one

Unauthorized Copying Is Prohibited. Ask the author first.
Copyright 2013 Ashe
Published on Monday, December 2, 2013.     Filed under: "Poetry"

Author's Note:

Ashe is a lovely human being, guys. - PR
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Comments on "A Feast for Wolves in the City of Angels (by Poetic-Realm)"

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  • A former member wrote: i lovereded the visualization i got in the begining of your piece, grinding teeth has never been more spine shivering.

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