Play Dead- passage II

Dinner had gone cold, that stupid whore said something about drinking myself stupid, but i didnt care. Didnt listen. She had fucked me around for the last time.
I sat in my chair, my place of solitude and power, a good bottle of bourbon smashed on the floor. The fumes blindingly strong, nectar to my rage, soaking Her mothers tatty rug in pools of pandamonic amber.
That bitch had bit me. My same bitten and ragged hands still totted the Colt. 45 my father had given me, like a viper, coiled and pissed off.
I watched her and ground my teeth. She was wasting my evening while she coward in that filthy corner, making me listen to her sob story about how she tries but is never noticed, her whimpers fell on death ears.
''Clean this mess up. Clean yourself up. then get into bed'' all I could do was drunkenly smirk as she got to her chores without so much as thankyou. The dusty lamplight caught the fresh purple welts on her cheek, livid and angry marks of a lesson well learnt.
I fired three shots that night, two had landed neatly in the wall, just short of that bitch. the last tore apart a photo frame. Our marriage was broken anyway.

Poetic irony

Whats in a poem?
Except lost words and phrases,
Speeches of dead men.

Play Dead- Passage I

She had been laying there, lifeless, for the past hour. The stale smell of dead passion mixing with the sickly stench of blood, it choked my nostrils, and an all too familiar pleasure convulsed through me.
"stupid bitch" I growled through clenched teeth "you just dont help yourself do you?" she couldnt role over to distance herself, I was still on top of her, so she just looked away. All the feelings she once had for me had long gone, I had broken her until she was barren, void of all emotion. Power was addictive.
I slapped her hard, thats all I know she deserves. Swinging myself out of the dirty; unkempt, bed, She had failed to tidy the sheets again, I did up the worn buckle on my belt and slid into a plain, loose shirt. The summer was heavy, i could feel myself breathing in the moisture, the heat was acrid.
I turned to look at her, she still lay there, as useless and morbidly pathetic as she always was. Spitting in her direction ''dinner at six'' I left for work.

Angel Of Death

They said I was an Angel of Death.
A soldier of God,
A servant of our Lord.

They told us that He created all in His image.
We were His hate,
We were His anger.

They gave orders to destroy His enemies.
Crush the traitors,
Kill the heretics.

With fire and salt we were to purge the land.
Cleanse the mutants,
Burn the unclean.

With Sword and Shield we were to defend His laws.
Defend the righteous,
Protect the Just.

We were to write His words into history.
Burn flesh with faith,
scar bone with steel.

For this we would be righted of our wrongs.
Absolved of our sins,
Forgiven for our faults.

We are the soldiers of His Majesty. Our Lord.
His servants bound in prayer,
His Angels of Death.