Tag Archives: house

the house of sinners

You’ve fallen captive to what you thought would
Save you, what you thought would clean your slate
You’re in the thick of it now and you have swallowed the hook
What’s done is done, we’ll continue on with or without you
Pain must exist in order for healing to survive
Neither one will ever serve their purpose alone…

~*~

underhanded whispers

rotting foundations to the very core

flesh devoured by the ego

and cold blood sold to murder slaves—

black eye gouged for black eye

in this parasitic wasteland;

of a home built on crossbones

and mangled hearsay

swallowing teeth and anger

boiling harsh on explosive veins

devouring the starving bruised hearts

until all that’s left is arcane vitriol.

so tear my body apart to pathetic shreds,

expose the lies in my backbone

and make me believe fervently in

your hypocritical preambles,

distorted tales of abuse,

vile corrupted, asinine whining,

and the conjured-up apparitions at the

tip of your foul leather tongue…

i’ll pass it on to another fool;

taking them as you have taken me for.

because oh, i just adore

your stories of foolhardy orphans

and the secret adoptions that

you slipped in our coffee like poison

and now you have the nerve to grit

the dirty money between

your running mouth and say that

we don’t fucking deserve any of your trust

as you shamelessly go crawling back to your mistress

and weep behind red war paint.

a personal sadistic leverage,

that pathetic carnage of a temper of yours.

watch yourself before you accuse us

and don’t speak with the smoking gun

permanently lodged between your

pointing fingers like a quickly-burning cigarette,

because you’re gonna set yourself on fire.

and we’ll stand back and watch

the hostile flames convict you of arson—

among all of the other crimes

you’ve shamelessly committed against us,

because it’s the most merciful thing

we could ever do to you.

~*~

This is my goodbye, don’t worry
We saw through your trickery
And we’re coming out alive, see you at the end
What was once your life is now lifeless
What was once your life is now your jail cell.

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bricked-up

this house

is a horde of

gnashing

pack rats all

fucking eating

me alive

and i wish

that they would

choke on my

flesh after i

lace it with

cyanide.

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anatomical dissection: brain

what hurts more,

remembering to forget

or forgetting to remember?

.

you count all the wins

and all the pyrrhic losses

that take your victories under

.

what hurts more,

the scars on your shoulders

or the scars inside your mind?

.

invisible to the naked eye

but a succumbing force that

makes you lose what you’ll find

.

what hurts more,

staying for the sake of leaving

or living for the sake of staying?

.

lock the pain up in your room

and hope this house burns down

with you still trapped inside, crying

.

what hurts more,

all the words that they said

or the words you never spoke?

.

sticks and stones don’t break bones

but splints and cement puts them back

quietly mending what you always broke

.

what hurts more,

knowing too much of everything

or drowning in your own ignorance?

.

scourge for knowledge, miss for bliss

drain the oceans and fill up the abyss

self-hatred fighting your self-defiance

.

what hurts more,

this cold logical ideology

or the lying sentimental truth?

.

it’s a constant push and pull

of devastating dreams and riled reality

inspiring like the rabbit inspires the wolf

.

what hurts more,

overthinking things again

or not thinking about it at all?

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The Home Inside My Head

I’m getting pretty good at leaving, my patience isn’t wearing thin
Autumn never ends in my head, no matter how far I’ve been
It feels like everybody is the branch and I’m the leaves
Falling from the top of every leafless tree…

~*~

Seven lies, to make up for the ones I spent on you last night

Veneration and admiration melting into stained-glass spites

Memories triggered on the revolver with an empty chamber

A diamond bullet for each bloodstain that I fail to remember

.

This is way more complicated than smoking on the dashboard

And sitting on the basement stairs, tying another noose’s cords

An apartment with a single chair and a couch to accommodate

The monsters that visit my bedroom when I am staying up late

.

Doorways without a doorknob, a stone key without a brass lock

A broken doorbell with a barren picture frame, so please knock

Provisions of diverse renditions settling in moth-frayed drapery

Your overplayed excuses taste like naphthalene on dust bunnies

.

Under the lampshade where you hid those secrets and the baggage

You stowed away with hallmark cards and epipens for easy storage

Brass tacks and rusty corkscrews can’t alter the sound of voicemail

Last year it was our symphony, now it’s just another ire on the scale

.

A ghost of the tenant occupying an abandoned and decrepit residence

Ancient tales of foreboding snatched by shadows, gaunt reminiscence

The home inside my head feels much more spacier with a lodger gone

Past vacant stares and for sale signs, perhaps it is time I end my haunt.

~*~

The home inside my head has a bed for me
That no one will ever get the chance to see
A kitchen table with one chair, walls with
Empty picture frames no one will ever see…

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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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Streamers Over Empty Shadows

I’ve got a cupboard with cans of food, filtered water
And pictures of you and I’m not coming out
Until this is all over, and I’m looking through
The glass where the light bends at the cracks…

~*~

Maybe it just didn’t matter

That our house was a table emptier

In an absence of good food and spilled water

And gregarious pictures and laughter

Maybe it didn’t matter anymore

That we ceased attempting to keep score

And that everyday brings me dread

For the time it all comes to a head

Maybe we’re just falling out

The way ancient things always do somehow

The history corroded and rusted

And I shot the bullet that left it dead

Maybe we’re all just too busy

Doing what’s important, picking a priority

No time for relaxing and companions

Instead eating out time and cramming lessons

Maybe I’m just being selfish

And a melodramatic conniving bitch

But I needed alleviation, yet no one showed

Until I left my whiskey out in the cold

Maybe things are simply changing

Just like how they should be carrying

Life is just seconds from detonating again

Now we don’t say if, but we say when

Maybe it doesn’t fucking matter anymore

That this little ritual of ours has become a bore

Maybe you stopped to care, but it’s sad to say

When I needed it the most, no one arrived to stay.

~*~

And I’m screaming at the top of my lungs pretending
The echoes belong to someone, someone I used to know
And we become silhouettes when our bodies finally go…

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hell sweet hell

you make

home

feel like

hell

and make

hell

feel like

home.

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Fauxtographic Memory

I keep losing sleep in beds still made from soaking sheets
And I’m still haunted by the ghosts of people still breathing
I already hate the words, they’re not a thing we even share
Stop looking for a metaphor, it isn’t there…

~*~

Photographs in negative slate

Cigarette ash on his fingertips

A lock of hair on the pillowcase

Faint redolence of perfume sweet

Keys hanging on floral keychains

Abandoned stilettos by the doors

Pastel sticky notes on beige wall

Milk spoiling in the refrigerator

Dusty corner in solemn shadows

Familiar strain of a phonograph

Soft touch but a distant stranger

Faltering echoes of ghostly laugh

Red lipstick stains on sheets of silk

And aftershaves of musk and cedar

An empty closet, dirty bathroom sink

His eulogy written in crumpled paper.

~*~

Fauxtographic memory
A mind that’s still developing
I turn my back on all I see
Cause everything feels make believe
You tried to stay, I made you leave
And made the world give up on me
I can’t accept reality…

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drink or dare

cautioned glances

hushed laughter

madness taken

in little sips

dirty secrets

gin and water

madness hidden

mine to keep.

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Murder House

Doomed souls entrapped in an endless charade

Dead after dead, marching solemnly in a parade

Gruesome executions and macabre murder

The death and destruction thus carries on further

.

The innocent, the broken, those with sinister plans

No mortal is safe from the curse of this vile land

A single step inside is enough to sign your death sentence

Its grandiose exterior is all but a twisted pretence

.

All the way back from when it was built, already defiled

First victims a mad doctor, a lamenting wife, and a dead child

It’s best to stay away from the dark gravity of this place

Because the house is starving—and it wants warm blood and flesh.

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