Tag Archives: fight

Stars In Flight

The hope that you spilled onto my tongue

Still has no discernible taste

And all the second chances, times infinity

Felt like such a complete waste

I want to defy the serpents hissing profane

And light up these lips in butane

I want to believe that yesterday don’t exist

And cross it out of my checklist

But I relapse into hospital wedding gowns

In voices that don’t make a sound

Choking on gold ribbons, feeling the same

As I get tired of writing my name

Spinning in cycles of silver clouds and pose

Faith as banal as a lacerating rose

Telling heaven what I want again ‘til it hurts

Injured by hell, losing to my curse

Will I ever replace restless flames that ignite

As pretence returns to take the fight?

Will I close my eyes against the terror austere

Can I say I’ll still be here in a year?

But I hear you singing in the wind and echoing

Past empty hallways, ever listening

Sabotaging rusted knives deigning to be selfish

With a stellar colliding for the finish

You will never know you’re my angel, will you?

You’ll never know how many times

You saved me from falling out into dark oblivion

As desperation’s bile starts to arise

When you swore you won’t chase in circles south

And whispered as I held my mouth

I did yearn to die, but you make me want to fake it

Sleeping in carparks, I might make it

And the floral pain nearly tears my skin into shreds

But you drink away the poisoned lead

I’m screaming thoughts which you turned into wine

I couldn’t rest until I’m startled into fine

I never deserved all of this, though it might be sparse

You swore it’ll disappear, promise to stars

I’ll be alright, love, I can bleed away all my phantoms

Someday I’ll fly to you, away from rock bottom.

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metal & skin (xxxiii.)

it’s a banal addiction

it’s a hurting poison

it’s nothing but a self-indulged fight

it’s mindless, wrong

and they say be strong

but why does it feel so fucking right?

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Life and all Its Fickle Insanities

Is there a right way for being strong?
Feels like I’m doing things all wrong
Still I’m here just holding on
Confess my heart and forgive my wrongs
Just trying to show you something more…

~*~

You’re trying to keep from going insane

Biting down on your heart to keep from crying out in pain

Walking away from the tomorrow they promised

Would be a grand illusion of borrowed pleasantries

.

If nobody loves you, maybe you deserved none

Existence won’t wait for your fickle mindless derisions

Capture the scars, display them in an album

Filled with bad memories and flickering momentum

.

People might stay for the night, but won’t build your dreams

And the sunset taking back the light is more than it seems

You’re just trying to place the bets on the better

Picking the monochromes and greys in a palette of technicolour

.

Hanging barely on the tightropes by your two fingertips

And the audience might just cheer if you happened to sneeze

If nobody takes you, then maybe you’ll take yourself

Don’t bother trying to pick diamonds out of your golden chest

.

Your fractured ribs will give way to the recalescent candle that stares

Breaking the tongues of forever until you’re naif and unaware

Fighting back the night and holding on to the twisted path of right

Dying again and again until you find that final guiding light

.

You’re just trying to keep from keeping insane

‘Cause ain’t that the way of life and its arid little games

Walking towards the today no one will ever give you

But yourself, this illusion may be grand but the escape won’t beat you.

~*~

Nobody’s gonna love you
If you can’t display a way to capture this
Nobody’s gonna hold your hand
And guide you through, it’s up for you to understand
Nobody’s gonna feel your pain
When all is done and it’s time for you to walk away
When you have today, you should say all that you have to say…

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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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Terrors in Unseemly Whispers

The spirits of the dead, who stood
In life before thee, are again
In death around thee, and their will
Shall overshadow thee; be still…

~Spirits of the Dead; Edgar Allan Poe

~*~

Upon such terrors that haunt thy endeavours

The whispers that appear evanescent forever

For the pendulum that struck the beating heart

Of the pit in the tomb that dares to intend a part

.

Where does thy mind lie upon the whereabouts

Of clean sanity and conscience driven by doubt?

Nightmares that proceed to take turns every night

A magnanimous beast that thou have yet to fight

.

The foe with eyes that glint sharply upon thy trysts

In a labyrinthine path lies a gorgon after every twist

Steel thy nerves, freeze thy blood, pray to thy angels

That heaven mayn’t bless parlance on a chasmic well

.

And if you defeat and crush the blade upon your heel

Might such a fair victory alleviate the terrorising feel?

Shall those nights of shadows be buried in sarcophagus

Or is the grave far too shallow to emancipate the rebus?

.

So be wary of the ancient fright intertwining coldly in thy bones

Thus such a scare is undeniable, chiseled on cracked headstones

For upon the nevermore terrors that haunt thy fallible endeavour

The grim whispers turned to gruesome horrors shall abide forever.

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open season

i have never told you a single thing

because i do not want you involved

i do not want you to get in the way

of such trainwreck i have devolved

if it was better for me, i would bite

they all say it’s what’s fucking right

but i know there’s not a damn point

there’s only cliche bullshit to anoint

of medication and invasive therapy

that leaves no personal room for me

and i do not want paid-for sympathy

nor will i waste my time for insanity

six years i’ve been dealing out alone

and i’m still alive right now, aren’t i?

i’ve done everything to keep it all in

fucked in the head with fucking lies

but i’m fighting back, broke apology

i cut my wrists, but never too deeply

i repress depression, relapse, release

i’ve people to pull me out of the seas

i still hope, i still dream, and i’ll love

i’m still disgustingly human by blood

i am damaged, but that does not mean

that i’m not trying to change anything

so please just stay away from this mess

and honestly, this is just all for the best

say it’s help my mind need endures, but

you just might end up making me worse.

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A Mouse in the Kingdom of Lions

All eyes on me, castles falling
Glory, glory, I’ll rise like a one man army
I don’t wanna die without living
I can’t fight without winning
All eyes on me, I’ll rise like a one man army…

~*~

In these destroyed ruins I stand in eulogy, beating the drum

For the voice of dead angels and the harps left unstrummed

Corrupted blood rains down in blizzards of prideful torrents

This efficacious fight’s dishonour gradually refusing to relent

.

So proclaim me wrong, devour this bravery to the starving wolves

For deceit and manipulation is the singular truth I’ll boldly uphold

Attention wrought to the tumultuous voices of the silent anarchists

Uncivil battles engaging against the flames of the contrite arsonists

.

Was thus my gullible sin? Have I persuaded concentric fools yet again?

Dost I have to beg mocking demons just to return to my fallen Heaven?

False, it exists only within old locked towers, behind walls of a fantasy

Hell is a decadent salvation, the final hour’s reverence and only mercy

.

Shards of glass cruelly beleaguering my gregarious scars and wounds

Forgiveness as unforgiving as the darker repasts of the eclipsed moon

The dagger I hold is a facsimile of my humble chivalrous restorations

I’m but another violent visionary rejecting sheer valiance of perdition

.

So reap my damaged soul, for it’s already damned in sacrificial benevolence

And such tempest has defied my will, as it pilfered my crumbling innocence

Yet I shall raise my poisoned sword, nay to my chest, but to my heavy chains

In this kingdom of a wasteland I have created, only the defeated shall remain.

~*~

Even when we’re lost
It doesn’t have to mean we’re losing
I will overcome if I fight now, right now
Never fear, never fall, never giving up
‘Til you give me what I came for
I’m through with all the time I’ve wasted
Battle stations…

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When the Rebel Fucks the Anarchy

My alligator blood is starting to show
I know that you know that, I know that you know
Can’t call a bluff with a dead man’s hands
Put a gun to my head and, paint the walls with my brains
Put a gun to my head and, paint the walls!

~*~

I want to set beautiful, dangerous, cataclysmic fires

And fuck the walls up with profanities and paint

I want to stab the living shit out of someone

To control, devastate, and cause trigger-happy taint

I want to do drugs, get hammered, and get busy

With sordid bedroom activities and a paid-for rancid honey

I want to get inked all over my ugly mess of a face

And pierce a thousand rusty needles at every blank place

I want to incite vengeance towards my sorry enemies

Start a fight and start a riot, bad enough to provoke armies

I want this screwed system to get fucked and change

To use lethal weapons freely, of guns and hand grenades

I want to just do whatever the fuck I want to do

Without getting screamed or bitched at, boo-fucking-hoo

I want to be myself, and to crush this cookie cutter mentality

To not give a damn if they think I’m just so bat-shit crazy

I want to be unrestrained, from society’s choking grasp released

To serve my unfair fate and for once, do myself some justice

I want to lose all my control just so I could take it back

For the humanity and the decency and the morality that I lack

I want to be self-destructive and be fueled by nothing but pure hate

And take some goddamn bastards down with me as I detonate

Life fucking hates me anyway, I just want to cause chaos and anarchy

What have I got to lose? I’m just fulfilling everyone’s easy stereotype of me.

~*~

Cut me up and wear my skin
Show me how to live
Tear me down, clean me up
Now spill my fucking guts
Just help me find a way!

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The Last Young Renegade

Long live the reckless and the brave
I don’t think I want to be saved
My song has not been sung
And long live the fast times, so come what may
I don’t think that I’ll ever be saved, I know
Our song has not been sung, long live us…

~*~

The first time strikes

Like a fatal blow

As the anarchic trite

Is a puerile glow

Passing fickle crimes

Consenting none

Pioneers of renegade

Bring out the sun

Youth and the world

War of a reckless

Glamour and talking

In tongue feckless

Long live brave fools

Mayday, they say

Profound, old school

Friction burn day

Trapped in suburbia

Caught on tarmac

Trainers worn-down

And hoodies black

The nights to arrange

Fast times dignity

Run out from normal

And old modesty

Tread black-top lines

Of spastic change

Spontaneous fervour

Could be arranged

But if rebels surmount

Punctual refugees

Restrained and recede

Scant probabilities

An unforgiving planet

Looks are deceiving

They’ll take the crown

But you’re winning

And the last time strikes

Descending in storms

And this juvenile chaos

Is worth fighting for.

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The Lost Anthem of the Damned Empire

Let the God-forsaken bastards sing!
They came like moths to a flame
You left like a house in a hurricane
The wolves are at my door
But I can see the writing on the walls
The wolves are at my door
Waiting for my empire to fall…

~*~

Oh mother, please drop the knife in your hands

I didn’t kill father’s eyes, I hope you’ll understand

It’s the voices in my head stealing hope under my bed

It’s the willingness to carry on only to be left dead

.

Please remind me to be more sorry than I am

For being nothing but a reckless little shit

If you think you can save what can’t be fixed

Why don’t you goddamn stab me with your crucifix?

.

‘Cause I’m just another soul waiting to be fed

Murder my sanity, I’m not right in my head

And when the serpents escape and contrite

It’s time to suffocate and give up the fight…

.

And the diamond in your blood is never enough

(Bite your tongue, you think you’re so clever?)

To pay for your sins and atone for the rough

(Wipe that smile off your face, motherfucker!)

And the admission that presents in middle fingers

(Bite your tongue, you think you’re the best?)

Is a flag of the beaten, fuck all this crying forever

(Fall on your knees and drop dead like the rest!)

.

When did they tragedy leave your bones?

When did the tragedy leave your bones?

When did the tragedy leave your bones?

Did you really think it will fucking leave me alone?!

(Fuck no!)

.

Claw your way from out of the dirt they dragged you in

Savour the taste of the cold poison in their rusty daggers

As you scream against the whispers of sorrowful sinning

It’s nauseatingly pathetic, how you drown yourself under

.

Swallow your desperation and choke on the profanities

There’s no excuse for this miserable shit of humanity

Rancid words and empty promises thrown down the drain

As the agony of every incident sharpens the dull pain

.

You’re fragile and broken, a sniveling useless creature

But don’t let their beliefs suffocate the mentality you have

It’s their fault if they impose, but yours if you sabotage

The only chance you get at mercy, and so help me god!

.

And do you feel the chills running down your back?

(Hear the crowds, do you think this is all over?)

The million insects piercing your spine rotting black

(Hear the crowds, this suffering will last forever!)

And do you still believe that the powerless will restart?

(Hear the crowds, do you think the guillotine won’t drop?)

Why don’t you give the fuck up, and listen to your heart!

(Bow your head down and wait for the beating to stop!)

.

When did the tragedy leave your bones?

When did the tragedy leave your bones?

When did the tragedy leave your bones?

Did you really think it will fucking leave us alone?!

(Goddamn liar!)

.

Let this be the final testament of the bastards

For the cowards and kings, marching up to gloat

Salvation proves fatal, only death shall remain

The sombre march of the anthem is a parasitic bloat

Lovers and liars, intertwined in collapsing church halls

Brick by brick, the horizon collides as everything begins to fall

A thousand cut tongues speak the truth as the holy lie

In the throne of an empire that’s built on vicious violence

Let the world of bones burn and the world of flesh die

Hell is the only truth that makes fucking sense…

.

(And let it be fucking so!)

.

Are you sick of this shit? (If you are, cut yourself!)

Are you tired of failing? (If you are, fucking die!)

Are you worn down by the tragedy? (Then why don’t kill yourself?!)

Put your hands behind your back if you’re sick of this sorry suffering! (Hear!)

.

For heaven’s sake, let’s scream about all this bullshit until our scarred wrists are fucking numb!

.

(When did the tragedy leave your bones?

This is a nightmare, you should have known

Why did you let tragedy break your bones?

When you know it won’t leave you alone…)

.

Break the walls and let this damned kingdom fall!

~*~

It’s the start of the end! Surrender the throne!
The blood on my hands covered the holes!
We’ve been surrounded by vicious cycles!
The end—and we’re truly alone!
The scars on your heart are yours to atone!
We’ve been surrounded, let ’em sing, let ’em sing!

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