I Know The Way

With my heart an empty void, and my soul a desolate land. The efforts of few have begun to show. The desert land flourishes with grass and flowers as my soul is touched by the hand of someone who cares. Yes it may be small, but it belongs to me now. The real me. I run as fast as I can through the inky and barren wasteland with my demons nipping at my feet as I try to break free from their curse and enter the light. My demons, who laugh at me as I once again forget their power, suddenly erect a mighty fence between me and the land of hope. They mock me with their construction as I can still see through to the other side and touch the blades of grass growing though. I need to get over this fence. I must. It’s the only way I can be happy. Time and time again, I try to scale this barrier between myself and who I have become. I realise that I can not, because this fence is in fact what I have built myself. A perfect way to keep myself from the hate that floods into my life daily. All I can do is collapse on the floor and cry, because my future I’ve wanted all my life is just barely out of reach once again. But not all shadows are the same, some are comforting. The warm shadow of a kind soul gracefully wraps around me and pulls me to my feet. I look to the owner of it. “It’s okay. You can get through this” they say as they grab my hands through the fence. “The gate is this way. Walk by my side. I know the way.”

Spiritual enemity

She could taste the blood in her own mouth, though she was about two and half metres from the him, ‘the high priest they called him’ , to think that here, in the underworld they ought to honour him , while at school he was just the guy everyone made fun of. Mariam was sure that is what got Ben in the occult thing, in fact all of the members of SDL had a sad story , like Jane who ‘s parents are in a middle of a massive divorce ;Peter who is just not good at sport and making friends and not forgetting Keith who just lost his whole family in a car accident .She failed to understand why she was there . She had a lot of friends , was part of the cheer team ,and her parents seemed to be doing okay. She never dreamt that on her sixteenth birthday she’ll be out drinking actual human blood .She should be home celebrating with her friends.

‘Blood of purity! drink purify your souls for tomorrow is the day we will see the great master,’ Ben said walking past them and handing a golden cup to keith who was first in the line, Mariam failed to understand why they needed purifying after all they are of the kingdom of darkness. She realised that this was way too deep for her to handle , it started off as a joke and now , now they killed a person, a baby. Jake’s little brother who had been sick with flue all week. Jake offered to take him to the baby clinic and while his mom went to arrange her sisters funeral. He brought him here , because the master commanded him. She never herself was able to communicate with the master, all crews claim that they ‘ve had an encounter with him .Especially Jake who the master directed to give the blood of his little brother as a purifying sacrifice. ‘how was he going to explain it to his mother? ‘ she thought ‘drink sister drink! ‘ she awoke to the voice of their young occult leader. puzzled, she took the cup and placed it on he cherry lips, the smell alone turned her stomach ‘ I can’t , sorry but I can’t!,’ Mariam protested.’she ran as fast as she could towards the door ‘seize her!’ Bed exclaimed . Keith and Rose ran towards her, Keith grabbed her arm so tight that she felt the pain pierce through her heart , rose grabbed both his legs and tied them with the occult scarf and Ben came and blinded her with Rose’s hair band. ‘ you are a traitor of the religion , your one of themr ! Mariam kept on breathing out hard . ‘answer me!’ Bed fumed .’ for Christ sake let me go’ Mariam commanded, not realising that she was adding patrol to the fire .Rose shouted ‘blasphemy!’ the rest of the pack joined her. the pulled her using her waist bealt and brought her to the alter , Ben surrounded he tiny body with wood and the put wax all over her body…’how about a burnt offering ?’ Ben asked the pack agreed by nodding.

The Hunter Awakes (Intro to a new story of mine)

It is not often that men consider the lot of beings lesser to them.
At their peril they discount the very idea these creatures may hold knowledge they themselves lack the capacity to comprehend.
A humble fly, a pest, a spreader of disease and pestilence, the worst kind of vermin. Reviled and exterminated whenever possible. Yet even now, thousands of their number were being drawn to a place, plain to see were the night not so dark under the clouds of the coming storm, where lay one who the givers of law so fervently sought.
She lay not alone, for within the steady and dispassionate circle of light cast by the electric lamp above stood her killer and no single emotion marred his placid face.
Her remains were not fair to see. Even discounting dirt and blood, the signs of hard use by hand and blade were upon her cold flesh. Had her spirit lingered, as perhaps it did, she would have witnessed the true wakening of that which had slept for long ages past.
Her killer spoke, though to whom it could not be said for he was alone in that lighted circle with only the departed dead.
Had her eyes still seen, as indeed from beyond they might, she would have seen the shaking of his hands, the primal fear belied by his dead eyes and unmoving expression as the blade which had stolen her life was drawn once more from its hiding place upon his person.
Had she been able to hear, and in truth she must have as all the dead do when they are spoken of, bitter would have been her tears to hear his stumbling words of supplication. No laments for her forgiveness, not entreaties to stave her wrath, none even to wish her a graceful rest in the life beyond. No, only worshipful mutterings in some ancient and nonsensical tongue passed his lips.
Up came the blade, and well may she have run, remembering its deadly touch. To heart, to lips he held it, swearing that which should never be sworn. Stillness, absolute and infinite settled. No creature born of night dared give voice. Even the masses of flies stilled, their innumerable wings held as a man would hold his breath.
On and on he spoke, making promises and bartering the tangible and intangible essences of his being and hers to the silence… until…
No sound changed, no great lights broke in the sky, no flicker marred the heartlessly efficient circle of light, no shadow moved, and yet within the circle he stood alone no more.
Eyes were on him, older and darker than those of his departed victim, unseen but felt unto the dregs of his soul. Smells assaulted his nostrils, rain, smoke, fresh turned earth… and blood.
He knew what he had woken, primal and ancient, born of the sacred blade first christened by his own willing blood… and then the blood of prey.
Twice before and now, the final time, he’d heeded the whispers seeping from the shadows, their promises ambrosia to an ashen heart. He felt no remorse for he was pure, and he was blameless. He’d hunted and sacrificed as was demanded, as men had done since the first days, no crime at all compared to what was to be gained.
From the first it had shielded him, showing him what paths to walk, where to sleep and when to flee, and when to take his prey all unawares. The givers of men’s laws were far from him, walking different paths and serving different powers. They could not touch him.
He shuddered as that which he had woken regarded him, coldly assessing its servant.
He’d sworn, he’d sacrificed, yet even now his acceptance into its embrace was not assured. It would brook no weakness, no frailties, no hesitation.
Moments wore on. Each a searing eternity under its scrutiny…
And then it spoke for only him to hear
Lightning split the black sky and all sound returned in a rushing wave, the legion of flies burst their ranks asunder even as glass rained from the shattered lamp. They would not touch this meat, this prey. It belonged to the oldest of things now, woken from its slumber and returned to a world it had long since abandoned.
And in the darkness as the first rain fell, he laughed.
(Written to set the tone and scene for my main antagonist)

The Maple Syrup Tree

The yellow-orange leaves decorated the floor as Chuck gazed at the magnificent maple syrup tree. It was like no other tree. Standing upright searching… Chuck under the gaze of its watchful eyes. Its beauty and majesty refused to escape his very thoughts. The image of the tree would forever haunt him. It stood there watching, erect as the sphinx. If you gaze closer, you will notice wounds engraved on the tree. “James loves Loretta” is the permanent scar the maple syrup tree is unfortunately abashed with. Chuck wondered whether it felt any pain or if it had perhaps responded to the burn of the sharp and torturous instrument against its wrinkled skin. He ran his nimble infant fingers along the crestfallen scar, “James loves Loretta.” He suddenly felt a gradual trickle of golden liquid ooze onto his supple index finger. He sucked at his fingers like teats and felt a delicious honey-suckle flood his tongue. An overwhelming sensation filled Chuck with excitement as he kicked off his leather shoes, releasing an extremely unbearable pungent odour. His toes sunk into the earth like sand at the beach. Such an inescapable feeling shattered the very core of Chuck’s soul. What in his monotonous life had he done to experience such a pleasurably intense and excruciating sensation?

Chuck raced home. He would appear athletic from an unfit person’s perspective with his feet pounding the ground as if racing against time in heightened anticipation to inform mamma about his Christopher Columbus discovery. Images of the tree remained fresh in his mind like sweet, precious photographic memories of Chuck’s vulnerable and erratic childhood. A sense of urgency and purpose was endowed upon Chuck with the need to tell mamma. He glided up the stairs in a ghost-like fashion. “Mamma, Mamma! You won’t believe!” Mrs. Brown looked at him through curious dead cat eyes. The thought suddenly escaped him as if he had never stumbled across such a glorious discovery. He forgot the sensation, that trickling feeling. Suddenly Chuck realised that the hot and syrupy sensation had left his tongue dry and bare.

The maple syrup tree clouded Chuck’s thoughts. He was unable to think of anything else but that looming tree. At supper time, Chuck played around with his food like a dog incapable of resisting a game of fetch. He poked around the wormy spaghetti mamma had so meticulously prepared for her darling baby. He thought the spaghetti wriggled on his plate as it reminded him of a heap of worms squirming in the dirt. He soon grew furious for no apparent reason and threw the pathetic plate of blood-curdling spaghetti against the flowered- covered wall. “I cannot eat this mamma! How many times do I have to remind you that I hate your spaghetti!” She looked plainly at him through cold, calculating eyes and menacingly responded, “that’s nice dear, off to bed now, I’ll stop by later to tuck you in.”

He lay awake that night with grotesque eyes, widened in terror. She had misunderstood him to an extent which he could no longer withstand. The image of that tree remained imprinted in his mind as he could not abandon the thought that the maple syrup tree stood watching over him. A mixture of fear and excitement surmounted Chuck as he lay conscious in his moth-eaten, handcrafted bassinet like a mad insomniac.

Arms outstretched, chasing mamma with a noose in one hand and a cleaver hidden in one of his pockets. He was unable to comprehend whether or not he was conscious. “HERE MAMMA, MAMMA, MAMMA! Come out wherever you are.” Mrs. Brown hid in the corner like a rat confined in an unbreathable space. Like a butcher, a cleaver appeared out of his pocket. He drove the cleaver into her heart, butchering her in the corner like the ripper himself. He repeatedly stabbed her with the release and finality of an orgasmic screech. Pure pleasure pumped Chuck’s heart at that very moment. Count Dracula’s reign of terror had finally reached a halt. Almost instantly, Chuck awoke in a hot sweat, realising that his fantasy was a mere nonsensical dream. His euphoric state had met a bitter end. His heavy head collapsed onto the soft pillow filled with concern.

Chuck awoke the next morning as a corpse; his throat felt bare and chalky. He lacked the desire to eat or drink. All that remained in his mind was the maple syrup tree with the golden glaze syrup flooding his tongue and intensifying his senses. Chuck rushed out the door like a dog in heat with the need to possess the sensation again. He blatantly ignored the desperate cries of mamma, urging him to eat something, pretending to be a proper caregiver, yet alone a mother.
“Mamma!” he desperately wanted to scream till his pipes had lost all its air and got snatched from his throat. He was convinced mamma was a bitter old woman. She had taken him for granted and used him just as she had with daddy. Chuck was convinced that he deserved better. The maple syrup tree haunted him that night, its omniscient presence being extremely hypnotic. He had to possess that enchanting tree. At least he would possess one thing immaculate in his god forsaken life.

He stood before it, savouring the pleasure of the maple syrup tree. It was different this time, punctured with wide gaping empty holes, releasing fountains of golden, gushing liquid. At the moment, all senses left his body, devoid of any feeling. He held out his hands like a beggar, scooping the golden liquid and lapping the delicious honey-suckle like a dog. The syrup was different this time, Chuck remained utterly perplexed. The golden liquid remained hypnotic yet bitter at the same time. The sweet taste of the syrup faded as the sweetness of the maple syrup tree was liquidated. No person could fully understand the maple syrup tree. One would have to taste its contents in order to experience its full cosmic power.

Chuck walked home savouring the intense toxic flavour. The maple syrup tree had been different today by favouring him with chocolate bitterness instead of overwhelming sweetness. His gut ached all the way home with an engulfing sense of satisfaction. Chuck thought James and Loretta were lucky to have come across such an archaic tree. Lying awake in his bassinet all day with a gut ache of bitterness was the only idea that entertained Chuck’s mind. Mamma would not dare to disturb him today or she might meet her end with that treacherous noose around her neck. Chuck would be her only audience, watching her face turn cyanotic with glee. She would scream only “Chuck” as precious life left her decrepit body. He imagined detaching her piece by piece like a helpless lamb and throwing the remnants in the void of the sea where she would soon be united with daddy.

It was not long before Chuck visited and drank yet again from the maple syrup tree. The taste was not that of sweetness or bitterness but was that of death itself. The taste filled his mind with reassurance and nullified his senses. He drank from the pool of golden ooze like that of a mad man. Excruciating pain crept upon Chuck’s body, turning his bones to ash. He could not stop; he could not resist the tree and the mystical power that it contained. His gut began to bulge in disgust so much so that onlookers would think him to resemble that of a pig with an apple gagged in his mouth ready for Christmas dinner. His once athletic frame had hastily undergone a grotesque transformation which was far from the celebratory transition into puberty.

Suddenly a thin voice whispered in the air, “What are you doing?” The voice was so mellow, harmonious and soft that the wind easily swallowed it up whole, resulting in the mere apparition of a sound heard. Chuck’s eyes followed the source of the quaint voice. She was tall as a surfboard with golden locks falling harmoniously and sculpting her shoulders; she had the appearance of an angel. She had wanted to know what he was doing, as curious as his feline mamma. Despite her divine state, she appeared to be nothing but a nonentity beside the grandiose maple syrup tree. An overwhelming scent filled the air. It was obvious that this golden-haired, Grace Kelly angel had the desire to claim the tree for herself. Greed fell over Chuck, blinding the remaining sanity that he possessed. Chuck pounced on the angelic girl like a creature sentenced to a minuscule cage for eternity. He tore off a branch from the tree and beat her bloody to a state of nothingness. He had done his duty and walked home with steady but heavy feet. Crimson footprints read like breadcrumbs left, hinting to the whereabouts of a cold and calculated butcher.

He lay awake staring at an empty space haunted by the maple syrup tree. The tree offered treasures beyond any measure and fulfilled wishes as unbroken promises. Chuck savoured the bitter pleasure the tree had offered. He quickly unbuckled his leather belt as his belly swelled beyond mountainous measure. Something was wrong, as he released his leather belt buckle; his gut began swelling to an unimaginable height. The belly blew up toward the height of the ceiling. Golden bubbles issued from Chuck’s mouth forcing him to choke on the golden ooze he had one too many times delighted in. Chuck fell into a deep unawakening slumber haunted by that maple syrup tree for an eternity in the afterlife, restlessly roaming with coins for eyes.

Mrs. Brown rushed through the door, grateful that her tedious job was done. It was not easy to entertain a string of jobs in order to provide for their small non-existent family of two. She absolved herself of her leather patent shoes and red kimono dress. She slowly eased into her grandmother’s leather coach with a bitter scotch in one hand. The radio flared up with The Fleetwood’s, “Come softly to me.” Mrs. Brown poured herself another bitter scotch as the symphony of music played in the background with her tapping her toes placidly against the warmth of the soft carpet floor.

Time passed by as a century would. Mrs. Brown awoke to the placid drip of golden ooze originating from the fresh dampened spot of the ceiling where Chuck’s room supposedly was. She awakened like a tired retired antique man and slowly crept up the stairs like an insect upon inspection. She had not heard Chuck since she relieved herself from her cloak of tired superficiality. Huffing and wheezing like an asthmatic, she finally reached the tip of the stairs, staring at her son’s room door. She knocked. No answer. The air was quiet and dead, harvesting flies and maggots. She finally opened his door like an intruder, evasive like an alien from the void of space. The aftermath of the scorching sun had preserved the room in a cocoon of heat leaving the contents to bake. The air was filled with a pungent smell of honey; there had been no room to breathe. A large puddle of golden ooze lay in the middle of the bassinet with an overflow of honey, dripping at the sides of the perfectly constructed wooden crib.

A glimpse of madness passed over Mrs. Brown’s face as she subconsciously drank in the liquid resulting in a picture of perfection to fall before her very eyes. Suddenly, a drop of golden ooze trickled from the ceiling and landed in her trap. She drank the trickle of ooze and delighted in its taste. If heaven had in fact existed, she would have already received confirmation to enter through the holy gates. She licked her thin lips to reveal sharp, supernatural feline teeth of Satan himself; crimson ooze dripped from her fangs. She sneered with satisfaction and instantly thought of her son which was a thought that had barely entertained her mind for over six years. She was filled with a sense of satisfaction yet sadness. She uttered a few words that her son had rarely heard her mouth before, “I love you” and this time she meant it.

My Death

The chains rattle amusingly as I desperately try to free myself. Fear creeps up and down my spine. I look up from the cement straight into the thousands of familiar eyes. The different shades of green, brown, grey and blue burn into my skull, all of them filled with hatred and judgment. I pull harder at the thick chains and I can feel them cutting into my sore wrists. Over and over, I try to escape the angry chains, but their grip on my wrists never loosens. I fall hopelessly down to my knees and cover my eyes in shame. Tears stain my cheeks and I can feel the disgust of the audience folding around me, covering every part of me like a heavy blanket. Their whispers are barely audible.
“It is her fault.”
“She deserves what she is about to get.”
“No punishment is enough justice for what she did.”

I hear his footsteps coming closer and stopping right in front of me. I remove my hands from my tear-stained face and look into his cold dark eyes. He grabs my forearms and yanks me up from the ground onto my feet. My entire body starts to shake under his judgmental eyes. He spits in my face and let me go so suddenly that I almost fall back down, but I manage to maintain my balance. I swiftly rub the wet fluid off of my face. From his pocket he pulls a large knife that eagerly glistens in the light of the full moon. Silence fills the air and everyone, including me, is staring at the proud knife.

In one split second I feel the knife sliding into the soft flesh right above my heart. Shock races through my body and leaves me momentarily numb to the inexplicable pain. The knife twists and cuts a neat round circle around my heart. The pain comes through and I scream. I grab the place where the knife was. Blood crawls through my fingers and flows down the length of my body to the ground. My hands fall to my sides. I briefly notice the audience is still deathly silent. I stare into his eyes. His big hand reaches for my chest and his fingers glides into the open cuts. They reach my heart and rip it out of my chest. I look at the beating heart in his hand. It is still alive. My hands reach for my chest once again and feel the big empty hole. Suddenly the crowd starts to go wild. I hear the thousands of familiar laughter and the deafening applause.

My legs give in and I fall to my knees into the pool of blood. The red fluid spatters all over my body. He throws my heart on the floor in front of me. It is still beating. It still has not died. The smell of gasoline fills the air as he pours it onto my poor heart. I try desperately to contain my tears, but it escapes and drips into my blood. The end of his newly lit cigarette glows teasingly at me. His two fingers open and it falls willingly onto the soaked beating heart. A blue flame rises so high and quickly that I fall backwards. I stare at the scene in front of me, whilst the fire eagerly eats at my heart. Its beat fades until it completely disappears. I stare at it until it is only a pile of ashes staring back at me.. The audience comes into hearing again, still happily applauding this horrifying event. He kneels down in front of me. His hand lifts the blood-stained knife and slides it across my neck. I can feel my neck getting wet and I look up one last time. I look straight into my father’s eyes, burning with pleasure and satisfaction. Surrounded by smiles, I feel the life leaving my body and darkness devours me.

The Deceased Socks

Maybe I should be arrested. Maybe I should not be here reminiscing about my art of killing. I left the scene quietly, no one saw me; no one can point to me. I left her lying there, with only her socks on. Her hair was red, from the blood running from her neck. Her smile, had dried up into a death grin. What is a death grin? Oh well, I am not trying to-.

Maybe I should have taken the socks off too. Oh! What a messy crime scene. Who commits murder and leave the socks on the scene? My mind was scattered everywhere, my heart pounding like athletes on the track. So, what now? Do I go back to take the socks off or do I continue to run away from the scene. Maybe I should make a few calls, ask Nandi to go and remove the socks from the scene. I cannot go back there now. I cannot face my deeds – although perfect, even if I have to say so myself.

I have never felt so free after taking a life of a person like the one I did tonight. I should do it again soon. Maybe this time around remember not to leave the socks behind. Wait, what’s that? Is that a knock at the door? Could it be the police already? Should I open the door or should I leave them knocking? Perhaps it is a guardian angel, coming to drop off the socks. Mh! That would be nice.

Alright, they have left.

Let me switch on the television and see what is on the news. Maybe the socks are talking through the channels.

Oh no! The socks are here.

PostModern Borderline

Chapter One-Day-(Introduction)

There comes a time in one’s life rather a point in existence where the howls and barks echo through the cricket orchestra which plays the ambience and sets the mez-on-scene that lays ignored by dreams.
Little is the harsh cold smoky comfort from ones warm milk which as smooth jazz trumpets in the lucid haze that is rarely remembered. When Sun punches in with steamy coffee porcelain and Styrofoam mugs and the silent trumpets of morn forgone by a lighter fuelled alarming view.

Only one who has seen a year dwindled in failure can, will, may, truly understand or rather appreciate its worth and the time lost as a decade to child is a day to geriatric as minutes snoozed to a scholar become hours as necessary narcotics to a terminal patient; once upon a failure to a success is as bitter a certain medicine that an addict is first formed.

In Joseph rainbow coloured form the vehicle reversed out of its miniature doors ,these battered and bruised by Father Time, as rumble with drops of now turquoise brown paint. It’s been awhile since his skin saw the golden orb this meeting two cut his cornea through his matured green tints of rectangular glass.

He wasn’t one for friends as friends he had none if food or drink good company makes then a shoulder for tears was found in bloodied icy drink, a rarity at best, as he pulled at the grime part he now called a job he filled his mind with clouds ,being one of the few who know what it meant be besides himself he watch himself enter The Marketsquare from his passenger seat after flicking the amber butterfly-like and watched them grey the offspring take to them sky and he closed his eyes.

Chapter Two-Origin-The Echoing Solace

At birth we exist in the warm comforting never lonely solitude of absolute lack of worry, sorrow and loneliness, that is the mother’s womb. A tomb of joy and pleasure. A heaven upon the Earth, rather the only true bliss next to that lucid dream like feel of youthful days in an infatuated daze. Now what has become of these days? In age the angst-ridden daze that now, not only envelopes, but fills the depths of our heart, souls and our being. This exquisite paradise replacing abyss that now we dwell and find the treasure of excitement and pleasure. One’s memory, rather mine, serves me to the mere mischievous and innocent age of five. This kindred soul, adventurous and playful.

He continued his venture and in his dreamy state, until the age of ten, where self-image, self-esteem and all that is self began to come into view. The crowd psychologies of which Sigmund Freud wrote came into play in the fray of life. Circles with eccentric circles concentric within it all, leaving all the squares with a circle of their own in which they in great hopes may fit. The great extents a number of the squares and many-a-shape with great intendment cut their corners, smoothen their edges and attempt to enter or fit into even the outer edges of the concentric circles.

A decade has passed now curled in the silent corner sits. Until day the echoing voices cease with her, a ne’er goddess, if not she is a gift. Her gait, her eyes, her smile that beams like hope it reaches out and warms the cockles of the most icy-frozen hearts.

The dark daylights return to their original star filled brightness. No longer can he pen up the relentless emotions and thoughts.

Chapter Three-Ezelda

A name to place to this goddess, Ezelda. “It’s fitting,” he thinks. She warmly smiles as she blushes and she slowly removes the few mahogany locks of hair that have accidently fallen on her face. Then she slowly opens her matte crimson lips and she speaks. “Oh she speaks but not in words alone, I smile at the melodic harmony of her syllables, this smile is genuine and complete.

Weeks pass, months pass and now my thoughts, every last particle in the expansive beaches of his mind, are spent on Ezelda. Nearly absorbing his entire being yet she doesn’t suffer from the feeling when they are apart. He can hear her heartbeat echo with her voices melody, still her scent lingers on his skin. The smell of bliss.

The hands of time swing on, and thus as easily or rather elegantly created the masterpiece above all others as a fresh blooming field with the passing seasons wilts in the winter’s heat, thus the carefully woven tapestry fully unravels, and all that was is now fully lost and forgotten. Slowly the glorious chariot upon the Olympian peak backslides, past rock bottom to the whispering depths that soon became a necessary comfort. In the solid solace he finds his long forgotten comfort and not even a friend nor may brother suffice, on shadows he now leans.

Chapter Four-Voices

The voices within began to converse with his intoxicated conscience and they come to the agreement that these emotions he experiences are the cause for all his suffering, now the conscience with the soul eloped. The former has passed as a metamorphosis in beautiful solitude as a caterpillar in its amber cocoon. A new being emerges as a god of the old world, as a phoenix but in blue dark aura reminiscent of the fallen angels that great legends speak, above the stars at the gates of heaven once again now defying all the laws of nature.

The destiny now set in stone and sculpted in darkness, the voices of his abyss are now, within him and with his essence, intertwined. Ambivalent to all laws that these lesser beings abide and live. Now he is unbound, unchained, limitless, still he seeks what once brought him great bliss across vast plush green wastelands finally he finds, chloroforms the fateful kerchief and in muffled screams her final sounds of freedom wither in his palm.

From the abyss rattling of chains and mechanics of a suffering art are heard. The sound of snapping latex elastic gloves and the enticing macabre cabaret begins to perform and to this most vivid scene, and the echoing multitude on every end of the pitch scale. The glorious masochist filled and sadistic chorus, to which, she awakes.

Chapter Five-Meander

Four o’clock again, and this Thursday was no different to any other these walk ways taken where he’s mindlessly counted each jagged rift without a single eye off the path and the withering white, now grey, laces while rolling his fingers playing with the bulbous savoury textured edges and strumming the coiled chain that sounded unlike the ordinary this made a low staccato hum reminiscent of a tortured souls remains distorted by his dissociative course that in turn made a melody of contorted wind chime ambience. The orchestral moan awoke him as he crossed the road in a jay-walking saunter ,two trucks, small in size, in phase as if a perfect wave and one step to either side or an arm’s length stretch in 5, horns simultaneously sound, 2, 1… Ha-ha…
A three finger flick off adjacent the right temple…how flirtatious the angel Grim how one shares the bliss of thine lips how selfish gains unselfish remain

Four Forty-Five

Chapter Six-Memoirs

As thoughts emerged and constantly blaze his brain from state of dreams now icy mind the more moments born upon descending hearts psyche ,the misanthropy that steady lingers and builds with blank flashing visuals and momentary accompaniment amplified yet the silence that surrounded a sound mind was deafening.

Brain still buzzing from frontal lobe to stem in thought tangible conscience dripping from ceiling down wall on right of door as one enters ,the withering chord shore soon to snap carries a fading dreams remains with un-suiting shades upon mahogany round next to handheld torch and carton of cancer finger with a side of ecstasy and asphalt type lingerie. As fuel and flame mocks that which god’s ancient gamed war. She viddy well the sights of extraord’, “glorious gore! Gored and gored and poured once more.” Garnishes of red indeed may make pearls clench to lips, with ice or black upon thy skin and thread like seams and crystal clear on cheek yet beside smile of lush and tru’st in pupils 9wide.

Yet to unfold the encapsulated soon lays torn, no catharsis in sands that freely fall down vertical gyres two but spherical core shut these cage doors and within them none but you.

Chapter Seven-Night

Eyes wide as mind as I shall not. Yes I now with mind of silence the tocs tic audibly throughout with absinthe on buds shall they be found clear or any existent thought process in mind? Little.

Ignorance, Thee that plagues us all he and he wonders on as porcelain basket of corn with flowing white a complete meal doth make.

There and there and there empty loads of singles and glass and tunes of ages before thine own.

There and there and there cleanliness hath peak and cathartic carcinogen remain unseeked, those which define in societal pools drown and those keep in holster most true reflect thee.

Liquid sparks to liquid flame, a bud nipped and pupils float in expansive pools, time is sped and accessory bled now hath come but flame is quickened and soon…
Shall fade.

What i wish to be

i wish to be a whore of horror and gore
where no priest or saint can save me
my legs apart, i’m aching to start
im naked and waiting.

I would reek of cum in the dining halls
my tits always on display
at a glance you would feel repelled
and in disgust you would look away.

my sheets will be soiled with semen and shit
my skin blistered and sore
but nothing will compare to the open scabs
lining the frame of my door.

there is no lock so any swinging cock is able to come in
have his way
jiz and pray
that he doesnt catch anything

but pray in vane you will my boy
i will not leave you without a sore
my cunt enjoys this game you see
and looks forward to more..