Tag Archives: hallucination

ghost in the walls

Broken compass still moving forward
A constant north, the one I’ll never know
Like everything, I gravitate to what ends up killing me
We’re separated by a hell of a lot more than the sky…

~*~

i have not dwelt

simply to haunt the stubborn

nor to be wasted away

by tides of hubris.

i may be a mere spectre

but i am nary a ghost

nor another figment of your

mischievous imagination.

you may think me but

another flickering shadow

lingering past peripheral visions,

in the darker corners of your

tired, bleary, hallucinating eyes,

but i am not transient

and quiet mantras and disheartened

prayers will not be enough to

make me go away, vanish.

and my silhouette shall eclipse

your sunrise mind, until

persistence turns to paranoia

and mysticism turns to madness,

morphing your shallow dreams

into abysmal nightmares…

you deserve it,

for you are a murderer—

you have not killed my body,

but you have mercilessly mutilated

my spirit, leaving my heart

beating steady yet badly hollow,

making me vainly ache

for the former tragedy instead.

with what you have done,

it is only fair and just for me

to be the deathless past

billowing rather furiously

behind your closed curtains,

trapping you in my perpetual gale

as you have done to me.

for i have not dwelt simply

to be another superstitious legend

passed around in whispers,

nor will i stay in insignificant limbo

just to be entirely washed away

by the arrogant tides of

the fear you once called love.

~*~

Your wings might be broken but it’s not too late
You hide your emotions so you can escape
You can’t be afraid to make mistakes
And you can’t fake perfection…

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i can do shameless too (and this one goes out to you)

As we wake up in your room
Your face is the first thing I see
The first time I’ve seen love
And the last I’ll ever need
You remind her that your future
Would be nothing without her…

~*~

a s h a m e d

of violent emotions

branded on the

underside of my

numb, petulant brain,

making dizzy patterns

and dainty waves

and tracing cicatrices

of infantile graves,

returning to plague

what i always confused

and refused to admit…

y e s  i  c a n  f e e l

as the argent feathers

on your hair are effulgent,

dwelling ebony shades

escaping the delight of

my aspired clairvoyance.

they spite me for being

no stranger to the beggar

c a l l e d  l o v e

for always greeting it

rather fastidiously and

tossing a merciful nickel

whenever i chance upon it

on a bustling boulevard,

instead of spitting and

sneering condescendingly

and holding back my

burning tongue to trip it.

am i cruel for being kind?

dear, you’re a halogen

h a l l u c i n a t i o n

and i am but a yonder

sabotaged daydream

and i shall keep on falling

victim to your musings,

like a burning ochre moth

to the sickly sweet fragrance

of the kerosene oil…

so, is that truly my solitary

t r a n s g r e s s i o n ?

for being able to accept

what i’ve always constantly

abhorred and denied,

only to discover in denouement

that i’m the only fool that’s

crashing unsteady bridges

and drowning in the process—?

i shall not be craven of

the grander bouts of unknown,

for i’ve my own armament

tucked and hidden away

in a four-chambered dungeon;

ready to slash and shear

at the abstract canvas which

they all mocked as an

i n s u l t i n g  a r t w o r k .

you are not incarcerated,

but i am yours perpetual to

black out to the moon

and i will return from my

stratosphere holiday carrying

a souvenir star, lifting

the light to you, so that we

will never have to be

a s h a m e d.

~*~

If you kiss me goodnight
I’ll know, everything is alright
Second chances won’t leave us alone
Won’t leave us alone
‘Cause there’s faith in love…

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Another incident in the darkness

raven hallucinations

take over furtive glimpses

of a wary glinting eye

.

the nightingales are

mournfully weeping as the

crows cackle “someone’s going to die”

.

deathly silence enveloping

thick as the opalescent fog that

obscures the most crepuscular of souls

.

all before a distant scream pierces

the infinite nightmare; and another

wandering entity is devoured whole.

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Opioid Daydreams and Narcotic Nightmares

Maybe I could swim into your thoughts like your drugs do
Paralyze your body, sick and tired of waking up to
Burning eyes and cigarettes, I’m falling through the couch like
A suicide mission tonight, my god, here comes the downside…

~*~

The fumes I breathed in

Are as delicate as my polluted lungs

As frail as my state of mind

.

I look for a way into the dark

And step on cigarette ashes

Unaware of the inferno I might find

.

Crushing acetylene with two fingers

And heating the water a hundred degrees

To boil away this senseless rut

.

Inhaling, exhaling, once…twice…thrice…

And one more drag for the long run

Calm until the first punch hits my guts

.

My throbbing heart goes a’creeping

Into my trembling hands comes a’knocking

Painting butterfly psychedelia

.

I’m waiting at the foot of my deathbed

Staring at my lethargic lucid corpse

Tasting a million shades of phantasmic deliria

.

Anesthesised until I no longer feel myself

I no longer feel my broken bones

I no longer feel the pain like the ashes

.

Blowflies turned to pretty birds

Concrete floor turned to rainbows and raindrops

Until paradise wears off and slowly passes

.

But despite the exclamation points

Scribbled all over the blank walls, I won’t

No no no no no, I won’t ever ever panic

.

The blood and oxygen flow

Falling and reversing until my system

Is senescent retrograde and manic

.

And I’m hanging upside-down

On a cross, crucified by my lighter

Flesh pinned with syringes

.

Scourged and castigated

By angels and roman hallucinations

For my sins and perpetual binges

.

But I won’t die tonight, no I won’t

I won’t die yet…die yet, I think

And I’ll exalt those whorls of smoke

.

Submerged in a tempestuous sea of euphoria

Until I sink deeper and deeper into the hazy currents

And I begin to choke.

~*~

Trigger my nightmare once again!
And it’s fucking loaded in hand!
And we’ll let the fire rage
The smoke and the drowning flames
My bedroom computer light is the only
Menace to my new faux wooden blinds…

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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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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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The Diary of a Schizophrenic in an Asylum

(An attempt to see the world in the eyes of a schizophrenic. I greatly apologize for this mess of a poem I made.)

~*~

I am awake now.

My mind is in a constant state of disarray.

Shambles.

Entropy.

Torn to pieces.

Like pieces of paper in the wind.

I find no other purpose to exist in this world

Besides the Devil and His whims.

Why am I bothering to even write this down?

It won’t even matter at all.

My life is just invalid

My existence is a sham

I was just a terrible accident.

I don’t want to live.

I wasn’t meant to live at all.

But maybe I was?

Did Lucifer just want me to suffer

In this horrible, horrible world?

A mad man, that Morningstar was

Mad, mad, madder than me

But surprisingly a brilliant chap as well

Sent me to this place, yes He did.

Smart man. Smart move.

Where am I?

Am I dreaming? Am I dead already?

Carked it? Rotting off?

Infested with maggots at this very moment?

Where is this place anyways?

It can’t possibly be Hell.

It’s too white. Too clean.

Too clean for an impure man like me.

It needs more red. More black.

More inferno. More darkness.

Heaven?

Pure doesn’t exist in this filthy world.

It’s making my eyes hurt.

My eyes are hurting too much.

Blood. I see blood.

It’s bleeding off the damn walls.

Who’s to clean that up now?

Not I. I have enough blood on my hands.

No. It’s gone now.

It’s been replaced with black butterflies now.

They’re fluttering off into the window.

Goodbye, butterfly.

Who sent you to me?

It’s Asmodeus again, is it?

Oh, he’s the devil, He is.

That blighter is messing with my eyes again.

Or was it the man in white again?

He calls himself a “doctor”.

He says he could “help me recover”.

Ha! Such foreign, made-up words

Diving at the tip of his tongue.

What a sneaky, nosy, pesky pathetic liar.

Asking me questions like I couldn’t see

His true form at all.

He’s a messenger of the angels.

An advocate of the enemy.

He’s always trying to confuse me

With his sharp, sharp tongue

And his metal instruments of torture.

Ha. But he’ll never get me.

Constant vigilance.

He never will.

Who’s that I spot in a corner?

Oh no. It’s her again.

The faerie woman clad in black.

She’s back. No.

She’s the worst deceiver of them all.

I thought I killed her off.

The knife I used is still lodged in her back.

Pus and blood spurting off the wound.

She’s smiling at me with her razor teeth.

And stared with her empty eye sockets.

I feel utter shock.

Confusion.

Then madness.

The woman ripping at the seams

Exploding on my head

Tearing through my mind

Like the starved animal it is.

Faerie, faerie,

Why are you so cold-hearted and cruel?

Don’t hurt me.

I’m just a victim taken by the people in white.

The evil bastard angels.

No!

Not again.

Discord.

Too much discord.

They saw her.

They’re acting up again.

They’re rioting

And shouting

And begging for mercy

The voices in my head are.

Pounding through the walls of my skull

Rather hungrily

Such inconsiderate people

Their endless noise-making

Is giving me a headache

Something terrible.

I want to make them stop already.

I want to make the woman leave.

What should I do?

What could I do?

Nothing.

It’s inevitable.

I can’t do anything at all.

My hands are bound

My soul is shattered clean

My mind is unraveled

Like a fragile spider thread in a spool

Used as a noose.

The faerie woman smiles at me again.

Teeth flashing like fireflies, flash, flash

She whispers delicately “Nunc abire”

And with her bony hands covers my eyes.

I’m done for. Goodbye.

And so I scream and wail

Like a wounded animal in great pain

Though there is no one to hear me fall

And so I cry, like an oncoming storm

Until she envelops me and I can cry no more.

.

.

.

.

.

I am awake now.

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Amor, Corda, Sanguis III: BLOOD

(Part three.)

Honey…wake up…dear…darling?…

I  woke up up, and my dear wife was dead

Shotgun, a bullet put through her head

The bed, the sheets, the floor, they flood

With endless amounts of warm, sticky blood

I blinked my eyes, and cried in vain

When I realized that this was not a dream

Who did this!? Which sick bastard killed my wife!?

Which psychotic bitch broke her pretty face, ended her life!?

How the hell am I supposed to live without her?

She was my life, my core, my soul, my lover!

No…why, just why have they done this to me!?

My dearest angel, my love, please don’t leave me, can’t you see!?

God, why have you done this to me, to her!?

She didn’t do anything wrong! She was so innocent, so much better!

No…just wait…wait, I still hear her voice so loud!

My wife! She’s still awake and alive! Clear and proud!

Darling, are you here? Are you forever trapped in that mirror?

Is that just my ghastly reflection? What is happening? What’s this horror?

Please, no, my love, come down here, come back to my life!

Don’t come with those Seraphs, my soul will be filled with endless strife!

…I hear them coming…the persistent voices…the are near

The requiems are getting louder, soon…they’ll be arriving here

I cannot live like this anymore, so I guess I’ll beat them to the race

Just wait for me, my darling…soon, just once more, again, I’ll see your face

Honey…please…no…I…I…love…you…..

Goodbye.

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