Tag Archives: grotesque

In The Presence of Perdition

“And it is from this world of darkness
Which come the evil, destructive forces of man’s nature.”

~*~

Come one, come all, to the audience of the deceased

Have a taste of the pleasure that your rotting tongue missed

Sit before the actors regurgitating lines in vaudeville sarcasm

And your skin is stitched directly to the burning emblem

So curse all the horrors and scream at the fainthearted

A minor threat, a copycat’s tragic death, bloodshot gazes averted

Give out the two-faced masks that conceal the grotesque

For that flimsy veil of deception that only ire savages protect

So hold your breath and shut your lungs, there’s no other place for the living

Break your grasp and lose control on the mausoleum graves we’re dancing

I’m built for blame and bland on sins, severed eyes won’t see the true vision of hell

And I can’t be saved by devotees and war-bent crimes they preach on the chapel

But don’t worry, I’ll still clap along to the act until my blistered hands catch on fire

Dante’s inferno is just a burlesque caricature compared to this hellish life that even the devil desires.

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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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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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Scarlet Ribbons

Gilded scarlet ribbons

Cascading past my arms

Colliding with azure threads

Entangling in sick charms

Gilded scarlet ribbons

Trailing throughout my wrists

Ropes of tinsel green envy

Lattices of silver in skins of wist.

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The Decapitated Queen of La Brea and the Boy of her Nightmares (Hail, Suicide!)

I said, we’ll drown ourselves in misery tonight
White lies, you’ve worn out all your dancing shoes this time
Just give us war-worn lipstick, blood, and purifying flame
These eyes have had too much to drink again tonight
Black skies, we’ll douse ourselves in high explosive light
Just give us war-worn, I’ve been calling you all week for my shotgun!

~*~

I love your lips, and the way they bleed

Like dying throes of cold water orchids

Drive my heart like a spike in the ground

Along with the dead, it’ll be safe and sound

.

And the moon tears the marrow of our bones

And the teeth in our necks are razor stones

So take me to a church, and get me a doctor

The coursing venom won’t last any longer

.

I wear my pills on a bloodstained sleeve

If there’s a heaven waiting, I don’t believe

You hid a revolver gun on my ancient bible

Lock and load, the scripture spells out trouble

.

And the mark of the serpent is burning me

Nazareth is damned, call me Black Mary

Carve the tattoo for the switchblade saints

Die by the cross of the apparition’s taint

.

The séance under the spotlight is holding on

Bang bang! Goes the monitor, he’s fucking gone!

Emergency alert, the red lights flash and spin

This institutional madness is fucking caving in!

.

Horror in my decayed lungs, glass in my falling nails

Banging against the coffin door rhythmic, hail, hail!

Bathe me in the arcane fires of an everlasting hell

And pray to the hurricane rain for another dry spell

.

Oh baby, the sun won’t be purified by your lipgloss

But if you tried to save us, it’s a threatening cause

Beat me fucked and correct the date on my grave

Tonight we’ll be insufferable, disgusted at the nave

.

I’m damned and broken, the saviour of the anthem

Decimating heroes with lobotomies and brain stems

This is a wedding party, bridegroom toasting cyanide

Marry to the end of the health and your death, I lied

.

And if they think you’ll be holding (they thought wrong)

Pick up the signs, make up your mind (you ain’t so gorgeous now)

You may be in exile, but don’t forget to smile (shine the light)

Drop the guns and have some fun, we’re stuck here a while (shit!)

.

So hear me out, my divine angel, dear graceless and corpse-fair

The blood’s drying in my mourning Sunday clothes I shall never wear

But the way my hands are shaking, I will never have a clean shot

So just hold it as tight as you can, and pull the trigger with all you’ve got.

~*~

Pick up the phone! Pick up the phone, fucker
I wanna see what your insides look like
(I wanna see what your insides look like)

I bet you’re not fucking pretty on the inside (not so pretty)
I wanna see what your insides look like (not so pretty baby)
I wanna see ’em (not so)…

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Let’s Cheers To This

I’m losing control, my head is alright
I can’t shake the thought of me losing my mind
Been away for three days, won’t sleep ’til I’ve done
All it is I’m living for, now I will show you…

~*~

I’m already running out of faux words to say

So my blue blood just does all the talking

I wish the answering machines would shut up

When I’m in my bedroom, locked, blind, menacing

.

The pain sticks around for another retreat

Dousing me in concussions and nitroglycerine

I’ll be the expired month-old medication

That’s still ingested out of pure desperation

.

Patches of red scabs and frayed purple veins

A razor to the throat, daydreams that will remain

Ashes on my fingertips, but I’m not sorry

For the burning under my skin still scares me

.

I can’t go back now, for my lies melt and shiver

I’m left to degrade, my suns left to wither

Compensating for the dangerous sensations

I pulled the trigger on my character assassination

.

Perhaps soon after never the cuts will heal in jagged scratches

Carved in my backbone, my skull worn-out with deep scalpel notches

Nevermind that reality’s expendability is not a viable option

Let’s say our prayers and cheers to this, I’ll swallow without tasting my poison.

~*~

Your soul is down, I‘ll break the dawn
I took the stage, and now we’re
Taking back tonight, I made up my mind
This is my life.

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metal & skin (vii.)

the worst part

isn’t the fact that

i shower myself

in paintings of

incarnadine affinity

it’s the fact that

my fucked-up mind

wants to display

the grotesque artwork

so damn proudly.

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Blood Feud

There’s a grudge the size of a headache

Palpitating tangibly in my drying mouth

A necklace of bullets and funeral wakes

That’s what the tribulations is all about

.

And it festered in a sickening abomination

Of pustules and pus in fluid amalgamation

No mercy strain when it reaches your brain

A monster contrite to lick away sanity pains

.

There’s a grudge the size of a headache

And my throat has been badly victimised

There’s no knowing what it’ll actually take

But my burning blood is always traumatised.

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The Bone Orchard

In the bone orchard of midnight lavender

Branches pale and bleached, devoid of colour

Where the moon is solemn and stars are buried

Under shadows and overhead darkness florid

.

In the bone orchard of midnight lavender

Where no fruit bears and life burgeons never

Drowsy breeze pushes skeins of leaves wilted

Fluttering like grotesque wings of a raven threat

.

In the bone orchard of midnight lavender

Chill with solitude and still as stagnant water

Black bonfires flicker in garish admonition

As brooding souls wander and moan in perdition

.

In the bone orchard of midnight lavender

Where the restless death shall thus repose forever

Droves of vermins under groves of tales entombed

Where the spectres and spirits linger in their gloom.

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Aftertastes of Pain and Pleasure

“You know the only real way to cure pain is to add a little more, because everything new distracts the old.”

~*~

It’s a chronic disease

Festering like rancid bacteria

Kissing razors everyday

I fucking love the pneumonia

Gnash, gnash, gnash

Hissing breaths through my teeth

Gums bleed as they smile

Tongues lacerate as they seethe

Arachnids building castles

With sand and trapped insects

A gossamer threaded mind

Though I was never too complex

So just hate me, I hate me

There is no clearer difference

So just love pain, I love you

Adrenaline’s a refracted inference

.

Distract the ankle corpses

Lying under my bedroom floor

Putrefaction aspirations

Hallelujah money, give me more

Scream, scream, scream

Curdled up like spoiling milk

Dry warbling tones wrench away

The woven alcove’s curtain silk

The sweet stink of infection

The salty torrents of blue blood

The sour bile of liver under slaughter

The bitter lusts of a cruel God

So just hate me, I hate me

Don’t be fraught with reluctance

So just love pain, I love you

My wrists are failing away to dance

.

Was I too late to even care?

You’re my cloying hallucination

Of virgin vigils and mass memoirs

Be my phenomena salvation

I never saw the whole world alone

No, hell don’t plot to take me

Heaven rejects my grasping fingers

So I wallow in dirt-eyed misery

Dream, dream, dream

And that’s all you can ever do

Lurid eyes glassy, influenced LSD

A pillar of flames burning through

But I’m fucking protesting now

Look away from the wreck of me

It’s a high calibre fanaticism

Fractured away from broken injury

It’s our shared chronic disease

So just hate me, I goddamn hate you

Blind my pulse with your red lips

I love pain, I fucking love that it never stays new.

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