Tag Archives: concept

Ex Nihilo

Oh, but don’t you see? We’re made to destroy

Shooting arrows onto the pockmarked ceiling

Until it loses its shaky grip, and begins falling

Finding another home in the chasm of our skin

.

Creating the chaos that even god won’t decimate

The first sin and final revelation, we will recreate

Holding back the maelstrom, a cataclysm presents

With every pain and agony, the loathing we resent

.

Chasing back the darkness, like starved animals we breathe

Savages tearing apart throats to shreds to get what we’ll need

Bleeding, bruised, medicine refused, suffering keeps us awake

Or we will never stay alive under the weight of all our mistakes

.

Running away from reality, breaking in nothing as we stalled

Tortured eyes seek wandering lies, and scratching at the walls

They make signs and burn our names in the wake of destruction

That we caused with our dying hands, genocide of the generation

.

Can I just have one more, one more…can I just have one more taste?

I won’t make it, won’t make it—I won’t make it through another day

Pleading and obliterating, until all that’s left is you and I alone to die

We’re made to destroy this decomposing world of devastation tonight.

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see no evil, fear no evil

i counted seventeen vultures

circling above to rend my spoiled flesh apart

and feed me to their starving children

.

i thought i saw a raven

mocking my unfortunate fate

perched solemnly on a chiseled granite bust

weeping with plutonian pondering

.

as the foolish crows

sang me a heartless elegy

the epistles crumbled to ashes in my palms

and my fountain pen dried out

into blotted shadows

.

if only heaven were to open up

and save me from the ominous darkness

but there’s no room for another soul

to save; no vacancy to give

.

so i huddle beneath the branches

of the dying willow tree

and waited for them to take me alive.

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california soul

stay young

and keep your hands on the gun

don’t move along

and stay for the night

for the dark night that bleeds

in drunken colours

away from everything else

in the picasso paintings we called home

before we calmed down

and stopped severing our songs

so break me down

break down the better parts

that make us scream in the backseat

of crashing red cars

and i won’t run this time

so run me over

i’ll tally up the torques

torture me with tiring promenades

and hand grenades

and alcoholic stories that leave my cheeks numb

and when i pass the fuck out

carry me to my door

like you never promised me before

and i’ll leave you to stare

at the closed windows

throwing brick walls to play fair

just don’t bother with praying

don’t bother me

if the burning sun persists to remind you

don’t listen to the rain

listen to the suffocating hallways

give me what you can take

and if you still think you’ll be sorry

darling, your voice is keeping me awake

so what if i forget regret?

by then i wrote all these apologies

a thousand fucking times now

until i could taste the wounds on my tongue

until my hands are dragged into the ocean

until i don’t know what it means to be alive

what does it mean to breathe?

you lacerated my lungs

and monopolised my oxygen

so i guess i asked the wrong person

and i would do it again

until you love every broken bone in my body

but do you even give a fuck

that it’s cold outside

and all my mutated veins are frozen over

into dismembered accidents

of a lifeless smile?

don’t keep haunting me, darling

texas may be forever but california isn’t

and we could only wish to swim

against inferno summers and dishwater hurricanes

parched throats like a pyromaniac

before we crash on the rocks

and end up losing our bedrooms in the sky

did you fall away?

heaven is yours to plot my demise

when we’re stumbling over west coast clubs

and deadlocked in socal lies

i make the best mistakes to choose

when you’re wearing my lipstick and i’m in your shoes

crying until the lemon groves grow

and turn our memories of encino holidays sour

desecrating sacrilegious in santa cruz

saint anna has nothing left to lose

and los angeles is chanting ooh, la la la

the walk of fame is tipsy

the stars don’t remember their fame

hollywood is getting far too busy

and we’re covered in blood in san francisco

standing by the earthquake’s fault line

trying desperately to find out

which of us pushed the other one

but i’ll remember all the disasters forever

like how we convulsed with laughter

dissecting, exploring our decaying anatomies

relapsing into recovery

dancing circles around the hospital

and never even asking what’s happening to us

as we’re dragged under hispanic dust

dizzying in spin the bottles and betting hack money

ferris wheels and carousels and vomit

confusion reassuring with promises full of shit

the happiest place on earth feels sorry

disneyland’s just a ride away

watching movies at anaheim driveways

falling asleep at the rolling credits

diving into high tide currents of long beach

until one of us drowns deep

and we hid away in sulphur kisses

poignant in mission bay high

crushing red cups in san diego backyards

digging crowns and graves in clairemont for the day we die

so hold your mouth, we’ll be fine

i’ll tell you you’ll be okay, but i would be lying

for romance, for a chance

to entrance the devils pumping blood

for a nonexistent god

for you, for me, for loveless mercy

for love and everything that’s bad in this world

you whisper “baby, i’d kill for you”

oh honey, don’t you see? i’d fucking kill you

i’d count the sugar on your lips

i’d count the stars that collide all over your skin

i’d count all the chemicals that saturate me

when you count the sand on the shore like sweeter sins

soaking me in

breaking me down

until i’m wasted on your voice

until the wine tastes cheap

and until we’re entangled

like grey cobwebs and red tapes

and starving friends preaching eloquence

like our elusive selfish escapes

so please shatter your mirrored soul for me

and i’ll paint them over in stained glass

for the hollow cathedral

we’ll murder our lusted vows in

we both knew this moment would never last

cause i loved your shameless destruction

and that was a fucking mistake

i should’ve loved everything else in your dying eyes, darling

because that was all it would ever take.

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Waltz of the Midnight Bloom

Glacial advocacies amongst asphodel tides—

Such a sight!

.

Where would midnight be if not for the

Crescent waltz of the moon,

.

Spiraling into untoward lunacy;

Consumed with arrogant throes of

.

Calla flesh, blossoming in your sleep?

Taste my saline melancholy

.

And erase the

Starred question marks in my lungs…

.

Where shall you seek me?

My forgetful heaven persists

.

To thrive in amnesiac rhapsodies,

Euphonies of pink

.

Molting off your tongue like feathers

On a weeping angel on clouds of

.

Your descending grasp;

Gentle yet merciless in my soul.

.

Your quiet breaths

Drenching my bones, my every whim,

.

I feel you on my skin, my hair, my lips; your

Words of floral adornment

.

Assaulting me. Your falling meteors

Touch my eyes, drowsy sparks fading into neon

.

Again—

Melting me into neverwhere.

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Thirteen Minutes Of Scattered Reflection

1.

Insipid thoughts

None of them so much

As to be considered

Noteworthy—

I’m going to write

It down anyway.

2.

Dawn falling in fragments

Chasing the nightmares

Back into my drowsy head.

3.

Classic novellas that

End with a kiss

Rather silly, when

The whole point

Of the story

Is missed.

4.

Am I still your delight?

The pinnacle that throws

Blossoms under your sheets

And makes you smile with

Atrocious gesticulations?

Am I still your late nights,

Or has insomnia coquetted you?

5.

The silver snow stirred

In an autumn pantomime

My patio steps are slippery

A blackbird hums distant.

6.

I promised I shan’t admit such a thing, but…

The songs they sing feel like home.

8.

The irretrievable memories

Of you laughing drunkenly

Under sodium streetlights

As I kept the secret of time

Away so we wouldn’t have

To depart so suddenly now.

9.

Realm infected shadows slip under cedar oak limb

And they painted solemn lips a disorienting black

Vagabond lilies predicating the spirits of escapism

And again the sober hostages soused away the rest

With thrushes, silhouettes and asphodel disembark.

10.

The magnet polaroids

Stuck to the refrigerator door

Showing a false smile under layers of

Clown-vicious makeup

In a bad party for the ageless

…How disgusting.

11.

The pedestrians of Ridgemont High

Are caught in fast times

And the brake halt threw their heads

Out of the car window.

12.

My pulse is dancing in colourful circles

Won’t you try to catch its flightless beat?

13.

Calla-lilies serenade the moon

Icicles piercing icteric sunshine

Stars made for butterfly cocoon

Frog grass stepping, undefined

A diary written in brushstrokes

Of one artless individual’s chest

My ink is bleeding out and soak

I’ll tear out the pages of the rest.

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Dominance

And you’ll see your closest ones go first
Who needs enemies you’ve got friends
I’m a gentleman and you’re a liar
I expect the best of you but it’s so hard…

~*~

Oh, that never-ending thrum of her lifeblood. Splashing under vein and skin perceptibly, the splattered stains of her rogue lip-gloss submerging the hazy mascara-smudged gazes that she immediately crashed to the linoleum floor with a rejected dismay. What a mess—she looks drop-dead gorgeous tonight.

I approach her cautiously, casual and debonair, as to discourage unnecessary alarm. I admit, I was never one for such contrivances, writing unromantic lyrics at the back of my hand just so I can hold hers, irony unkindly spitting in my face with a sneer. Yet should she fancy a cosmopolitan to tear away the shreds of her enmities, I’ll be holding out a martini glass and nodding sympathetically, twisting the grim words as if it were Romeo’s dagger deeply shoved in her caved-in chest. Don’t bleed out yet, dear fragile porcelain girl, my obsequious platitudes and sycophantic adulation are yours to hoard and accrue. I’ll acquiesce in this chemical compliance to adorn your melancholy with rude festivities, I swear upon my heart.

Listen closer…do you hear her shattering tears inciting instantaneous panic on the dancefloor, digging holes deep enough for graves and hawking out salacious vultures to claw their way for the poor damsel in distress? Listen. Don’t be distracted by the jubilant electronic music whose undertones screamed of a mechanical cadaver behind the microphone, and hear the sound of a thousand starving beats ready to rend her apart. There they are now, the prurient salivating bastards, screeching and cawing shrilly, swooping closer and closer, razor beaks ready for the kill. It was up to me to stave the ravenous scavengers off tooth and nail, and never should it be said that such a task was not without tribulation.

I left that place beaten and badly wounded. But I do not mind the pain, for these fresh battle scars are an instrument of deceit; it shall only drag her in further into the elaborate delusion I set up for her to indulge herself in. She’s smitten by woe, deluded by pity, confused by liquor, a triumvirate of a perfect malleable soul. In her bloodshot eyes, I’m the bleeding fragile porcelain boy now, and it’s her adamant responsibility to pick up the pieces of my flesh that the scavengers left behind, it’s her self-blame and guilty contrition that will bandage them back together and fix my bruises to the best of her abilities. Deja vu, it seems. Yet, observe how the tables have turned. But no matter. She has my heart, if I had any at all. She is solely mine now. She is mine.

Listen…listen again. Listen closer, and hear the faint orchestral symphonies of her gossamer abstract body keeping me awake all day and singing me to sleep all night. Oh, that never-ending thrum of her lifeblood. How it tastes so fucking sweet between my sullied palms. How it thrums no longer now.

~*~

Let’s start over
When we reach the top, we’ll watch you bury yourself
This wasn’t easy, it wasn’t easy
I watched the weight of your world cave in to crush you.

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The Madness of the Mortician

She’s made of hair and bone and little teeth
Things that cannot speak
She comes on like a crippled plaything
Spine is just a string…

The mortician stood in solemn vigil, as motionless as the petite corpse that lay in front of him; a body wrapped in a translucent green body bag that caught the oil burner’s dim lamplight and shimmered iridescently like pulled-off dragonfly wings. The fetid air of coalescing formaldehyde and putrescence tasted bitterly stuffy, damp and stale. On the scratched wooden table, where his instruments were also prepared and patiently waiting, an ancient radio buzzed and crackled with static; the faint echoes of a lost song playing ever so distantly beyond the veil of the curtained morgue and worming its way into the back of his head. He paid it no heed at all, dismissing it as merely white noise as he wiped his hands clean the with a sterile cloth. Outside, nightfall was beginning to amalgamate into a midnight of pure blackness that not even the most resilient of shadows can dare to permeate. He sighed once and checked his watch. Time was running. He had work to do.

I wrapped our love in all this foil
Silver-tight like spider legs
I never wanted it to ever spoil
But flies will lay their eggs…

With cautious steps taken and wary calloused fingers twitching infinitesimally like burnt moth wings, he reached out for the diaphanous body bag and slowly unwrapped the plastic, peeling it painstakingly, yet with an impatient breath held, as if it were a birthday present. But he was fully aware that what would greet his beady eyes would come as no surprise to him at all, given his work and the police records scribbled on the clipboard that spoiled it for him. Still, he braced himself. The pungent smell of decay and sour reek of death began to grow stronger, wafting nauseatingly and hanging around the stale air cloyingly, sticking to surfaces like a demented fragrance. But he was used to it. After all, he had smelled worse things on worse days. Like when he gets those damn bloated carcasses pulled out of canals and lakes after god knows how many days of fermenting underwater, half-eaten by fish and sticky and vile and overall repugnant and a nasty affair. Heaven forbid if more criminals choose to dump their casualties in the river to get rid of them. The taste of the drinking water, that’s what he worried about.

A blowfly softly landed on his hand, jolting him out of his grotesque reverie. He waved it off and continued to unsheathe the cadaver, noisy plastic crinkling intertwining with the radio static, oil burner hissing quietly, the silence growing so thick and viscid that even the perspiration sliding down his forehead could be audibly heard.

Take you hatred out on me
Make your victim my head
You never ever believed in me
I am your tourniquet…

He was prepared for every possibility that could ever occur when he fully exposed the corpse—not that there were many of them, mind you—and yet nothing could ever prepare himself for what was revealed underneath the flimsy layer of plastic. On the cold metal table laid the lifeless body of a small girl, no more than four or five years old, wearing a tattered pastel pink and white dress, soiled knee-high socks, and only one red shoe on her left foot. Her auburn pig-tailed hair was matted and caked with layers of mud and soil, barely distinguishable from her scalp, her pallid, almost porcelain skin looking so fragile that he felt like he would break a piece of it off if he so much as dared to touch it, her gossamer lips a blooming shade of bruised lavender, and her delicate glassy baby blue eyes were wide open and staring at him accusingly.

He blanched, stumbling back for a moment, and reached for his whiskey flask to have a drink. He took a swig, momentarily glanced at the corpse, and then proceeded to drank deeply, almost emptying the flask save for a drop or two to spare. He wiped his mouth with one unclean sleeve and checked the time again. His schedule was turning a little delayed. No more beating around the bush. He must carry on. He must.

Prosthetic synthesis with butterfly
Sealed up with virgin stitch
If it hurts, baby, please tell me
Preserve the innocence…

He steeled himself, took a brisk breath that felt like daggers running down his throat and into his lungs, and with an unsteady gloved hand, he picked up a scalpel from the table and forced himself to continue working. He placed a face mask on ceremoniously with an agitated flourish, and hesitantly faced the deceased child. Let us begin.

To start, he’ll make a Y-incision in her…no, he mustn’t think of her as a human entity now, only a non-living object—its torso, pardon—beginning from the stomach, all the way to its frail chest, and pry its squalid flesh open to reveal and dissect its internal organs. Her skin. Her flesh. Her internal organs. The dead little girl, squandered at such a young age. She was young. So young and hopeful and once innocent, yet now all that youthful innocence has long since been pillaged by the metal weapon of a twisted soulless psyche, devoured and ravaged by ruthless parasites and bacteria, and the scintillas of the remaining scraps of it salvaged and gulped down by possessed, remorseless, feather-molting vultures. He shuddered at the morbid thought and nearly dropped the scalpel. His mind wandered for a moment, then pleaded with him, strung tether attempting to pull him back into a detached rationality. Do not think of her, do not think of her, whatever you do, you must not think of her…

I never wanted it to end like this
But flies will lay their eggs…

But his resolution was futile, and his ulterior willpower was immediately extinguished as the gas lamp flickered and flared defiantly, hissing like agitated serpents, brightening the dank room momentarily, silhouettes dancing fiercely on the little girl’s blank face. He shook his head. It’s but a trick of the light, a mere illusion, a worn-out mind taking negative effect—he must be growing tired. He rubbed his bleary eyes and looked upon the girl’s visage again. Devoid of life, devoid of movement. Nothing. But for a moment, to his disbelief and utter shock, her deathly ice-blue eyes appeared to blink. Both eyes. Blink. Blink.

He started with a roar and crashed backwards, landing on the floor with a dull thud and cutting his hand on the scalpel blade. Letting go of the scalpel, he stared upwards into the motionless corpse in equal parts terror and curious confusion, his heart pounding like the beat of a sovereign marching drum, throbbing head dazed and heavy with blood, breaths shallow and ragged like the edge of her torn dress. He absently held his head with his bleeding hand, smudging his temples with the glistening scarlet liquid. His soul filled with a shuddering dread. No. This cannot be happening. His worst fears, have they been finally realised? Was he regressing into what everyone had warned him fervently against? Was he…was he beginning to grow mad?

Take your hatred out on me
Make your victim my head
You never ever believed in me
I am your tourniquet…

God no. Please, no. Stop. Stop. Stop. The piteous chant in his head was depraved and overpowered by his other detonated senses, the other discordant voices in his head, uproarious and painful to hear, as the radio static gnashed and screeched cruelly, amalgamating into a demonic caterwauling. He dropped to his knees and held both hands against his ears, trying to block out the overwhelming noise but failing to do so, for, he realised, the source was not external. Amid the clangorous dissonance, he could distinctly and vividly hear her sweet, soft-spoken, splintered voice, laughing shrilly and squealing in excitement as he spun her around on the playground turnabout, cheered her on to complete the monkey bars to the very end, and pushed her down the peppermint candy-striped slide, shouting all the way down. But the slide never ended, and the ecstatic shouting turned into a bloodcurdling scream. She was waiting for him to catch her at the end of the slide, but he didn’t show, only empty faith gone to hell, and she fell out of the mouth and collided with the rough concrete ground, skinned her elbows and knees, and cried. Cried alone in the ground as the children around her sneered at her, as she still vainly searched for her absent father that walked away from her, away from her life. The horrid mocking grew angrier, barbarous, louder. The screaming intensified. The muffled crying turned into inexorable wailing, imploring, beseeching, beleaguering as it endlessly asked him why why why why why WHY

What I wanted, what I needed
What I got for me
What I wanted, what I needed
What I got for me…

His daughter. Her crying. His hands. Her throat. His wife. Her mother. The abandoned rundown house at the end of the town street, his abandoned rundown house, infested with restless phantoms and ghosts of the visceral past, raising question marks and concocting urban legends and horror stories under hushed voices and sussurous muttering, passing it on and on and on without ado. The perfect happy family that was immediately shattered on that fateful night much like their photograph that he furiously threw on the wall, and the sharp shards choking reality, the same way the broken glass did as it caught in his spouse’s screeching throat. The fight. The madness that took over. The knife. The screams of NO. The gun. The woman. The girl. The chase. The first shot that reverberated in his skull. The slash that slit skins open and lacerated the beige patterned wallpaper to shreds. A shaky hand doused with vodka. A penultimate warning. The wrong target acquired. The second gunshot that finished the story. The end. The collateral damage. A man dropping his weapons and passing out drunkenly on the stairs. A wounded mother bleeding out and lamenting such a cursed fate with shuddering howls. And the girl. His girl. Dead. Fucking dead. And it’s his fault. Him to blame. His guilt. His conscience. His life, forever locked away in all the insanity like his confined wife in the mental asylum, and buried down along with her darling sweetheart child. God have mercy and damn me, what have I done? WHAT HAVE I DONE?!

Take your hatred out on me
Make your victim my head
You never ever believed in me
I am your tourniquet…

The radio thrummed, piercing through the manic hysteria, His psychosis abruptly ended. The vivid hallucinations and insane delusions faltered back into the crepuscular room he huddled upon. The vehement tempest gradually dragged down into a catatonic still; a quite disturbing calm. The oil burner dislimned into a sombre light, flitting and flickering restlessly against the unpainted cemented walls of that frigid, haunting basement morgue. He held his breath and hitched. Breathed deeply and composed himself. Murmuring deliriously, he removed his madly-trembling hands from his ears and slowly opened his eyes in suffocating fear and trepidation. Dark morgue. Inanimate corpse. Damaged man. Distressing relief.

Lulling himself, he attempted to stand up, steadying himself against the oaken table. But as he clumsily straightened his legs, his besmirched coat sleeve accidentally snagged on the metal tray and he went down again, lightning pain shooting up his spine, the rusted clangorous metal instruments clattering dinningly and crashing down with him, and the vintage radio pulled along with everything else and hitting the ground, its tiny plastic pieces coming apart and effectively killing the only palpable sound in the room.

Take your, take your
Get up out of me
I’m not proud with me…

A subdued silence ensued. He broke down and collapsed into overwhelming contrition and mournful madness once more, this time never recovering, and he crouched there, on the verge of guilt and trauma, sobbing and frantic, face buried in his bloody hands, whispering splintered apologies amid the occasional sickening laughter that escaped his pale split mouth, as all the while his deceased companion watched with her empty glass-blue eyes. His broken watch ceased ticking. The lost song faded away. The cadaver’s lips twitched. The gas lamp hissed once, twice, and instantly snuffed out against the volatile wind, leaving the grieving mortician and the dead girl in total darkness.

I never ever believed in me
I am your tourniquet.

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Missed Call

“We make up horrors to help us cope with the real ones.”
~Stephen King

~*~

Every night after his funeral, I always called him on the mobile phone that was buried with him to hear him speaking on the voicemail. Call me rather morbid, but it was simply a little ritual that somehow kept me sane after the loss of my dearest beloved. Though after the events that transpired tonight, I do begin to wonder if I really have managed to retain my sanity after all. Just like any other night, I dialed his number and tapped on the call button; but as I did so, I suddenly heard his ringtone play loudly under my bed. And just as if things couldn’t get any worse, the phone on the other end of the line picked up.

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Vita Dell’aldilà: An Tragedy Opera in Four Parts

A makeshift smile, a polished look
Some rehearsed lines was all it took
He had it down, man, he was good
A woman screams, her mother weeps
A life so changed irrevocably
What he stole from her is gone for good…

~*~

ACT I: TERRO

Shadows under a spotlight, curtains calling and faces falling

Misfortune malady and maidens in masks, tickets outselling

The man of the show, the leading actor dies of a heart attack

They applaud his craft, the prima donna screams come back…

~*~

ACT II: INFERNO

Pantomimes place props, as paramedics arrive for scene two

The act has turned, audiences gasp, orchestra goes crescendo

A stagehand slips and farers faint, dim lighting and all is dire

Cigar tossed, a painted background of inferno catches on fire…

~*~

ACT III: PURGATORIO

The doctor announces the demise of a thespian, tears are shed

Performers pause for unfortunate condolence, in a quiet stead

Breaths hushed and whispers silenced in devastated memorial

As the stage director pays his respects, and indicates the burial…

~*~

ACT IV: PARADISO

But the artists recover, as the crowd settles down to a murmur

Limelight brightens, musical tempo, inquiries made no further

The poor cadaver carried away to the morgue to be cared upon

Death might watch from the audience, but the show shall go on.

~*~

When the purest soul is stained by sin
To the public eye where can she begin?
She lost it all and it’s gone for good
And she may never beat the system
But she won’t rest until she’s turned
The villain to the victim…

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Beware The Rattlebones

“It was perfectly dark, now, but the opening door disturbed the air, and I heard things rattle gently, like dry bones in thin bags, in the slight wind. Click. Clack. Click. Clack.” ~Trigger Warning; Neil Gaiman

~*~

Beware the rattlebones, my child

Who runs every hallow’s eve in the wild

Beware its sharp teeth and sharper smile

That charms like a flower and bites like a file

Beware the thin fingers and nails of green

The chants of red and whispers of mean

And trifle bones that rattle and shake

As if your own heart, it quivers and breaks

.

Beware the rattlebones, my child

For its soul is black and mind grimmer wild

When the fell night is sparse and serene

It goes click click click through the evergreen

As yonder ravens forebode a shrill cry

Still under ominous mist and past the starless sky

It thus waits, for a wandering victim to walk

Into its precarious winds so the poor one it could stalk

.

Beware the rattlebones, my child

Who treads the forest beyond the wild

As its glowing eyes of blinding white

Shall take you on with such a vicious sight

Beware the inky blood that steadfastly drips

From its mangled dry skin and stretched-out lips

Touch not the roughness of its crackled flesh

Hear not its bloodcurdling cackles, or else

.

Beware the rattlebones, my child

For it lives and breathes not only in the wild

It can sneak up to your bedroom window

And no nightlight nor blanket can make it go

But beware if it visits you as you peacefully repose

For you are chosen to be its supper close

If you do unfortunately meet the rattlebones, child, then

Run like hell, or you’ll become one of them.

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