One

I am a lacerated narrator,
an orator and oracle of a people deconstructed, who beget transgression,
transmuted, transgressed.
My lips are cut-away so that I may speak without obstruction
at the cost of accuracy.
I am accosted-- an accusatory, obstinate leech of pronunciation,
who, in my profound instigation,
ekes clarity from the clarion that my ever-salivating smile cannot provide.
It is a trophy of the atrophy of speech, my grim grin-grimiore.
My suffering snarls and malformed moans please and permeate,
seize and sickly sate
the malignancy of the sadist surgeon who slew my syllables with scalpel:
slice and sneer, my anesthesia fear.
General! Admiral!
(Restitution, destitution, and avant-garde admiration.)
Thank you, father; frenzied flesh-fouler.
Dark-browed and slanderous, we persist and subsist beneath your smoke-sullen skies.

The speaker of this poem is the Lacerated Orator, the leader of the Miscreants. I think I'm going to have it as his introductory poem, a bitter manifesto of insubordination to the Surgeon-General (the creator and father of the Lacerated Orator, of sorts). My goal was for it to be as vicious as possible, but I'm not sure that it is. Also, the flow and rhythm is a little off, and the whole thing needs to be a little more cohesive. The content itself may need to be adjusted, as well. Right now, it just seems mediocre and contrived. I didn't intend for it to be a final draft, but I wanted to post it so I get back into working on the project as a whole.