Tag Archives: corpse

The Madman’s Magnum Opus

Insane is all I know right now, and my head feels demented

My nails fall out, my gums decay, before I get sedated

I choke on my teeth and swallow a few, shit, it feels hard

As they wring the spit from my eyes and again I’m a discard

So numb that I couldn’t feel the knife on my spine anymore

And I couldn’t count the tally marks screaming on the wall

Keeping track of the infinite days when the demon lets me be

And inches its fangs closer to put me out of my stagnant misery

.

Because the blood tastes more delectable when it’s not my own

As the whores that I corrupted bring my wasted body home

They don’t flinch at the maggots that they suck from my mouth

But they do protest before the chloroform hits their breathing south

No no, it’s not torture, I promise I won’t ever hurt you, my dear

I just wish to lick away all your mingling doubts and puerile fear

But don’t piss yourself, don’t soil your skin, or I’ll be very mad indeed

Behave yourself and stay sweet as hell, or you’ll die before you heed

.

But they caught me revering over one of my masterpiece creations one day

Yelling loud profanities to such beauties, that’s not a very nice thing to say

They dislocated my shoulder just trying to put my artistic hands in cuffs

And took away my beloved artworks, goddamn these useless criticising cops

So that’s how I ended up in here, living and sleeping in a filthy jail cell

With a colossal man who uses me to play every night as if I couldn’t even tell

The food is bland, the nurses laugh, the doctors give me exclusive diseases

The medicine is cheap and expired, putting my mind under heavy poisoned dazes

.

But it’s alright, because the girls I love visit me when no one else is looking

Their breaths may be putrid, their bones may protrude, but I won’t be complaining

And they’re building a rope out of their intestines to help with my grand escape

Don’t worry, I’ll be back to make you feel loved again, so just you patiently wait

They may inject cholera and botulism in me, and force me to see an underpaid shrink

But I won’t be deluded at all, no, as clear as a dark day I can still properly think

I’ll lace my pustule-dotted hands with anthrax and touch them until they’re all dead

Writhing on the floor as I step on their bodies, no one can help these bastards now

.

But for now, insane is all I can ever know, and all this pain feels rather demented

My cheeks slough off, my ears leak brain fluid, yet I feel so divinely elevated

I suffocate on plastic pills and jolt again from the electroshock, shit, it’s such a buzz

As they wring the tears from my broken neck and again I black out with a slurred cuss

So insensible I couldn’t feel the rusted scalpel slicing out my frontal lobe anymore

But I wouldn’t have to count the scratched tally marks shrieking at me on the stone wall

Because when the demon rends another piece from my heart and transfers immortality

Vengeance will be served and heads will roll; this world is damned, so I’ll add a little more beauty.

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Filed under Poetry, Valentines Poetry

There’s Such a Word as Damnation, and I’ll be Your Role Model

Well you can hide a lot about yourself
But honey, what’re you gonna do?
And you can sleep in a coffin
But the past ain’t through with you
‘Cause we are all a bunch of liars
Tell me, baby, who do you wanna be?
And we are all about to sell it
‘Cause it’s tragic with a capital T…

~*~

We both promised, we both promised that we’ll be dead together

And watch the showering fireworks kill the sky at the end of November

We swallowed bullets in turn, hoping to spit them into diamonds

But we laughed too hard, spilled cheap champagne, choked on garrotes

.

We didn’t want, we didn’t want to hold hands all the way to suicide

We just wanted more than an automatic answering machine before we died

I disputed the grave, lights in nave, one more nightmare for you to save

But I walked away from the mausoleum doors, leaving all that I gave

.

So would you, so would you consider therapy even for a moment

For neurotics and martyrs and vagrants thinking they’re fucking heaven-sent

And dead Mary, quite contrary, I’ll be your lifeless little boy blue

Herding my sheep towards starved wolves, as if innocence was something new

.

And you’ll chant, and I chant, na na na now’s the time for all the killjoys

To wash the blood off their broken noses and scream until they break their voice

Collecting melancholy in notes of g and eyeliner verses of the apocalypse

Bruises and lipsticks melting together into a dangerous warpaint on their cheeks

.

One more time, one more time, let me listen to the prayers of the damned

I’m just another corpse decaying on the pew, preaching for predicament demand

And you’re the pastor that opened the stained chapel windows to let me in

We’re friends of hell, and I wish you well, thank you for welcoming all of my sins.

~*~

‘Cause we all wanna party when the funeral ends
And we all get together when we bury our friends
It’s been eight bitter years since I’ve been seeing your face
And you’re walking away, and I will die in this place…

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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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It’s Watching You

This thin man is starting to fade
You won’t be living for long
So, just fly with me, die with me, babe
They all swim while I drown
They just dig up the dirt and bury us into the ground…

~*~

It’s watching you with rotted eyes

The remains of a corpse that holds a lively disguise

He broke out of his coffin and turned it into crutches

When his skin peeled off, so did the soiled bandages

.

It’s watching you with decaying glares

The deceased carcass that’s not quite dead and aware

He brushed the fresh ripe maggots off his tattered suit

And clawed his way out of the dirt and grave in pursuit

.

It’s watching you with hollow sockets yet again

The cadaver with a rancour mind of pure and a desiccated heart of sin

He fashioned his wilted wreaths into a cheap bouquet with your name

For you failed to attend his funeral; and he does not intend to do the same.

~*~

It’s been watching you
Your slips and slurs and play on words
All fall from your mouth
Each mutter, rolling dripping from your tongue
My plagues begun…

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Blood Clots and Black Holes

Here’s your new drug, shoot it in the left eye
Feel it on the right side, no it’s not love
Though it sets up shop behind your ribcage
Building blood clots and black holes
Like using an axe to pull a sliver from your skin…

~*~

Unresponsive desolation, paralysed in blood and cement

Reactions set to explode, evidences execution half-meant

Excerpts of a circumvented verse, misguided boundaries

Pulses worn, reciting reasons for the living in cemeteries

Incompatible, undesirable, infiltrate my cataclysmic rain

Under issued influences, heroin and butane shot for pain

Crashing manifestos, an intervention set to fucking burn

There’s no point to reflect if there’s nothing to be learned

Covenant of injuries, gregarious dimensions disembodied

Bedraggled carcass averting headlights, a contingency bid

Cold condescension will only covet unconsented concerns

Wasted like a question mark, duplicated hemispheres torn

Bullets traded for breathing soldiers, a parasitic symphony

Beneath the facade of a tranquil noir, an indelible calamity

Again the fugitives sink in violent vices, composed in ashes

My perverse altercation is but an alibi under my rotted flesh.

~*~

And they say this is medicine
An overdose of oxygen
A severed head as sedative
To be at peace would be a sin
And surely un-american
I’m breaking down…

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The Valley of the Damned

I found me in a dream I can’t quite tell

Nothing could be heard, save my exclaimed yells

A clangorous toll of the old church bells

As if, to recognise my bereft knell

I blinked my eyes to clear out the vision

Obscenities, kaleidoscope fusions

Rather than vanish, why, alas! I saw

Such macabre horrors of nightmares raw!

.

I found me in a dream within a dream

I sought to shiver, I fought not to scream

For surely, it will awake reposing beasts

In the unquiet valley where they feast

That mystified zephyr of Hebrides

Prayed out to me in eponymous pleas

From whence cometh the tempest arising

In delirious shades of jagged lightning

.

I found me in a dream of tantrum storms

The quicksand below me mocks in furled scorn

Torrents of rain slashed at my waxen skin

Vulnerable state of feared heart within

It worried me not, my physical form

Yet I feared great for my sanity shorn

Will it keep me company? Or give in?

To the contagion of this valley’s sins?

.

I found me in a dream of umbralon

Whilst I wandered the desert all alone

A presence of unrest, saddled danger

Following me like a distant stranger

And what is that shadow that stalks me here?

A feminine figure, a lithe veneer

Upon closer inspection…on my life!

Sneering back was my emaciated wife!

.

I found me in a dream of seeked vengeance

Facing my departed wife’s defiance

Its rictus opened, I stared in horror

Mouthing such words that left me in terror

Come with me, groaned she, cold corpse beckoning

Shaken, I fled, denying her waiting

She gave way to no chase, only she smiled

I suppose I shall see you in a while…

.

I found me in a dream of confession

Vindicating with forceful convictions

Oh dear God, tell me, for I have wronged thee

Why must I suffer thus? Please answer me!

I implored in pain, yet all in mad vain

For only thunder procured my remains

Collapsing by a riverbank of mud

I wept and I wailed, tears causing a flood

.

I found me in a dream of senselessness

Where my reasons diminished, less and less

The morn in descent, a perennial night

Heed, heed the dying of the glorious light

As I lost the path of my own snapped mind

And cackled in lunacy, unlike mine

Halted at the gate of blood, death and bones

Ah, I thought comfortingly, I am home.

.

Demons hath swooped with tongues in twisted grins

And magniloquence, Welcome, please come in!

I embraced their whips, grateful volition

Marching me to their final perdition

When I found me in my dream, I have fell

Stepping upon a ghastly wishing well

When I asked for peace in paradise’s dell

I missed one step and plunged through this damned hell.

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The Bleeder And The Sinner

Your words were written in cold blood 
Anatomy of a ghost, invisible friend
I won’t pay for sanity ’cause I don’t want to know
Some things are better left alone…

~*~

I deserve no more no less, for I’ve always been a regular IV hospice bleeder

Aestheticless to the bone, and you were just another veiled catholic sinner

I unraveled my stained ruby bandages to find you whimpering, lost inside

And I thought you’d come out finally from where you’re cowering and hide

But you shackled yourself deep within to the chambers of my aching heart

And it hurts me, and perhaps you as well, when I try to pull you and I apart

So I left you as is, thought this fragile proposition was nice and harmless

‘Til I fell for your sapphire eyes so hard that the ground became bottomless

You’re dragging me down to the bottom of the abyssal lake, under the high glen

I can swim quite well against currents, but your added burden made me sink

So I inhaled the frosty waters, and I drank what’s left of my precious oxygen

Sustaining the life of my frozen heart with my warm soul as I wade in the ink

But you swam away from me cruelly, and tore my beating heart into pieces

Shattered the last vestiges of my dignity, leaving me alone and helpless

No longer can I weep, ma cherie, for crystal tears don’t flow in the undertow

Can you still feel my numb skin when I already can’t, love?…It feels so cold.

I was wounded once but can heal the pain, yet now I’ll be bleeding out forever

As you prowl among the oaken pews, searching for another victim wherever

I used to be just a broken bleeder, and you used to be just some senseless sinner

But corpses can’t bleed out anymore, dearest, and the devil’s always a clear-cut winner.

~*~

It seems
I’m not everything you wanted me to be
In a dream on the way to the hospital I’ll slip away
What’s happening to me?
And as you drag the lake and pull me out
Do you feel the shame inside you?
And as my body lays before you now
Do you feel my skin? It’s cold.

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