Tag Archives: darkness

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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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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Just Look At The Mess You Made

Another knife in my hands
A stain that never comes off the sheets
Clean me off, I’m so dirty babe
The kind of dirty where the water
Never cleans off the clothes…

~*~

flies on your shoulder

blood in your sundress

darling girl of the hour

did you make this mess?

spelling decayed wrists

a blade for the clergies

vomit on blonde tresses

did you make this mess?

makeups smear breakup

a suicide note in lipstick

clean is now so careless

did you make this mess?

bathroom tiles shattered

pills and mirror scatters

a beauty fed to the beast

did you make this mess?

broken bones and skins

as agonist lungs scream

darkness she confessed

did you make this mess?

monsters devour a mind

it’s nothing you can find

a darling girl, mum’s best

why are you such a mess?

~*~

Only go so far ’til you bury them
So deep and down we go
Touched by angels, though I fall out of grace
I did it all so maybe I’d live this every day…

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Still of the Night

Keystone bridges clip the sky
From window seats, lean right over me
Smell my promises to take a pleasant start
Ease a sense of heart, give a little bit…

~*~

This city is often drowsy

But it never slumbers

It only pauses to hitch

An evening’s breath

Before returning to life

And bustle once more

Yet somehow, I prefer

the quiet city when it’s

Barely holding on, and

Almost passing out from

Asphyxiation, all before

Exhaling out stale zephyr

For a fresh glimpse of dawn

Circulating warm blood in

Its road and highway veins

Because in the almost-dead

Of the cityscape midnight,

Both darkness and silence

Ensconce houses within their

Enamoured embrace, as if

It was a cozy knitted tapestry

Quite comforting and familiar

As the sodium-lit stars and

The silver mercury moon

Hesitate not to provide hearts

With soft goodnight kisses

And in the not-quite dead

Midnight from this vespertine

Escape on a cityscape reverie

Is when I take the deepest sighs

And finally take my own share

Of the oxygen that gets stolen

By crowds in suffocating daylight.

~*~

Maybe you were my song
Don’t have to stay too long
Fed up with your friends
Whatever I could do to mend it now…

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searching for chimaera

Love, love is the warmest color
Petrol blues, hallelujah, hallelujah
Comes, saut dans le vide, my lover
In my youth the greatest tide washed up my prize…

~*~

it miming fantasies

a prayer of dahlias

warmth and sprigs

of wallpaper roses

cast hallucinations

spectral silhouettes

crescent lunar lamp

of moment to forget

consent trepidation

elucidating respites

chiasmus chimaera

an effete of the night.

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v-tach

Chase away

The darkness

That’s breathing

In me with life

Treat medication

From the veins

I gouged with

A scalpel knife

Eat my cancer

When it festers

Within my mind

That won’t restart

Operate me and

Amputate this

Failure of a system

You call a heart.

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metal & skin (xiv.)

under the darkness

the cycle proceeds

of a mercury teeth

and a soul in need

.

under the darkness

the ritual proceeds

with a lethal gleam

and a heart to bleed.

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cardboard nightmares from san diego

Failing lights amass
One hundred sleepless nights
And I might be holding on too tight
But there’s a beast in my heart
And he won’t let you leave alive…

~*~

i can’t sleep

your narcotic songs

serenading

the darkness

like strong coffee,

like an addicting pill,

like my eternal fix

that keeps

me craving as

it doesn’t

leave me hanging,

are keeping me

up again.

with a blanket

for a noose

and blacktop

curtains lacing

my hazy nightmares,

the bracelets

you tore off your

lungs constricting

tearing at the

glitch in my

stupid beating heart

as sanguine souls

fended them

all away.

the delusional

circus polluting my

mind like

strangers at a

party, and

i feel like i’m

eating cardboard

and liquid nitrogen

through the

hole in my chest,

and it makes

me sophisticated

even though

the tines on my

fork are being

held by the monster

in my head.

i feel like

i’m cheating

as i begin to

see stars

on the ceiling,

in zero gravity

spinning madly

to make the

cracks and paint

peel disappear;

but heaven didn’t

anticipate to

sacrifice halogen

lights just so

i can waste it

on you.

hallucinatory visions;

the stavanger sky

that glowed

with pitch black

and stole my

knives for me,

the colourless eyes

that left their

suicide note on

the underside of

the mattress,

the tattoos that

painted themselves

against but they

pierced the

wrong skin,

the hounding

of the astral voices

screaming my

lullabies for me

like choirs

of a wasteland,

my thoughts

constructed like

a kindergarten artwork

with messy hands

and a vestige

posed irrationality,

everything…

it’s fucking me up.

nightmares;

of you and your

caramel gaze,

honeyed flesh,

and barbed wires

of your tangled hair

and that unique

playful anarchy

of a foreign ethnicity

laughing wild

all this hopelessness

infesting…

you’re fucking me up.

leave my

unconsciousness,

won’t you?

i can’t sleep.

~*~

This is the price you’ll pay
Thoughts in your head
That will never die…

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Agony and the Man

Ah, the inscrutability of agony

Greeting you like an old friend

The domain of unwanted pain

For your attention it contends

.

Ripped by shades of monochromes

Like ancient pages of a fragile tome

Insalubrious tales of a ghastly mend

Unto which your life dares to depend

.

Mister Razor incising like the devil

Ceasing flows of red blood vessels

Lost hope to which you relied upon

Darkness, it comes to take you son

.

Ah, the inevitability of agony

Greeting you like familiar sin

The stains of welcoming pain

Bothers not—for it always wins.

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A Wayward Child’s Empty Pen

((The following entries are transcribed from a waterlogged brown journal, found along with a dried blue pen, in an abandoned park bench in Southwark, London.))

~*~

01/13/??; 01:25 AM/PM.

It’s so cold.

The Arctic rains pour angrily, beating down in relentless torrents

The languid sky is shaded with an amalgamation of sickly grey

Under my tattered umbrella, I attempt to figure it out but I can’t

If the lost sun is falling out of its orbit, or just breaking the day

Perhaps I wasn’t meant to know.

.

01/13/??; 02:00 AM/PM.

Nothing but unadulterated trouble, problems arising from the start

A cautioned winter’s tale as thorny and ancient as Eros’ pierced heart

It warned, leave that wayward child to find its way in a crooked path

For avariced Hell hath no fury than wicked disappointment’s wrath

At my current state, I know they’re right.

.

01/13/??; 02:26 AM/PM.

So I shattered all the best of china dinnerware, and bent all the tines

So I melted my sister’s only set of crayons and lied to waste their time

So I played hooky, hung in alleys, and started a chaotic playground war

So I scorched half our house, maybe a pet, just for a speck of warmth

But that fire was just so pretty.

.

01/13/??; 03:15 AM/PM.

I plead and begged and beseeched, but unfortunately, to no such avail

It seems that my dearest loved ones wish for me to simply fail

Wounding thorns clung to my sullied dress like demented hands

For they’re the only company I find reassuring and I can understand

Hello darkness, my old friend.

.

01/13/??; 4:00 AM/PM.

I know I’ve been a guilty bastard, I’m all but holy, or God forbid, saintly

I’m a cragged diamond, cracking under the pressure of my turbid sins

My weak conscience wrestles and grapples with my slippery sanity

Perhaps this time, I’ll cease being the referee, let one of them win

But I know I’m not that strong.

.

01/13/??; 4:55 AM/PM.

Counting all my remaining days away on my bloodstained fingers

The tragicomedy death of my feminine art nouveaux still lingers

Withered skin falls in fragments, peeled from my chapped ivory lips

Catch it like fairy dust or white snowfall, and make a quaint wish

Snowflakes taste like faith.

.

01/13/??; 5:01 AM/PM

You’re lost, you’re lost, my scalding mind accuses, accrues, accosts

An inane foulness of its profoundness breathlessly traipsing around

I’ve been nothing to seeing stars and dottiness but a gracious host

Honestly, why dare I even complain, what dare I even maunder about?

I saw it coming from miles away.

.

01/13/??; 5:27 AM/PM

Why thou’st I abated thy tempt, thy lust, gluttoned thy forsaken monster?

Borrowed words I’ve spoken now, chagrined regrets not mine, all rust

I was caught unawares in a graceless predicament tryst lacklustre

I discovered amidst the fuss, I was never worth my weight in stardust

I’m so sorry, mother and father.

.

01/13/??; 6:00 AM/PM

As this wayward weather ages, the jaded hurricanes growing much old

That lush aftertaste of bliss’t twilight indented within the fiery cosmos

I nearly hit a brick wall staring upwards, waiting for comets to unfold

Once again, I’m stuck at a dead end, regent shadows my blanket close

Ah, so it was afternoon, after all.

.

01/13/??; 6:30 PM.

Cold…it’s so cold.

I wish for a coffee, chamomile tea, or maybe a chocolate chip cookie

The frosty mist from my mouth is actually my frozen soul leaving me

An ebony feather drops from my back, searching for my palace free

I will amuse myself with black burnt matches and burnt out reveries

Yet no chthonic demons cackle nor heavenly Seraphs beckon me back

Rejected by both sides of the cruel horizon, sky beat blue and black

Walking like a spectre, even though I know that I’m no longer breathing

Cold…I’m so cold…please…why won’t anyone just…please…let me in?

.

01/13/??; ??:?? PM.

I’m all out of ink.

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