Tag Archives: morbid

Circus Of The Unseen

“The circus arrives without warning. No announcements precede it. It is simply there, when yesterday it was not. The black sign, painted in white letters that hangs upon the gate, reads: Opens at Nightfall. Closes at dawn.” ~The Night Circus; Erin Morgernstern

~*~

worms through a corpse

chill wind past the silence

borne of blood and bones

cold distorted innocence

.

of faded starlight, heaven above

inferno below, hell hath no love

scarlet disenchantment perilous

lavender everglade, clement recluse

.

gabardine stained, crosses blue

concatenated catacomb, retaliate

viscera neglected, exhume anew

quinidine necrosis still separate

.

febrile fever, pray for saints

tortured nightmares desecrate

astern deliria, cataleptic taint

cradle unbeating hearts in fate

.

essences of alluded calamities

incensed wraiths roam auguries

oculists resurrect mortal citadels

as nondescript massacres dwell

.

shadows unseen, a circus of assailants

creed of asylum undulating sycophants

dim realms long perished to divination

leaving only churchyards in conflagration.

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The Bulls Are In Broadway

Some people have it and other people don’t
You’ve been making some threats, got my name and address
I’m breaking habits you don’t want to know
Though I’m wearing my clothes feeling cold and exposed, yeah
Don’t say you miss me, you probably don’t
Well, I’ve been crossing some lines that most folks won’t…

~*~

This is the academy of wasting second chances

And the maggots in my eyes are drying up my tears

My intuition knocked itself out on cheap champagne

As the discourse turned to an allegory dance severe

.

It’s a sociogenic alacrity, and my dress is on too tight

But I’m far too smitten by repertoire to call it a night

So remind me again, what’s my capacity for secrets?

Tell me with a gun to my head and I swear I’ll keep it

.

My lips are shivering from these hemlock-laced canapes

So admonish me for all my bad manners and mistakes

I’ll just downplay the lust for another fractured spine

The consequence for saving the best for the worst lines

.

Mismatched manipulation, but they will take it in anyway

Blink back the altercations and accusations that ricochet

With a sympathetic sigh overstepping the plague’s carnage

Like finest red wine, tragedy gets better when it’s aged

.

This transition was intransigent, an accolade for incoherence

Bent backs turned upon lacquered lies and marble-carved doors

You don’t get to die on me, not after my life has taken the perfect end

So won’t you let write the last chapter on my unresponsive monitor?

~*~

Oh, don’t say you’re more than this or above all this
With your blah blah blah and all your friends
Don’t say you think you know, when you know you don’t
Because tonight the Bulls are in Brooklyn and you’re still at home!

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Nightly Vigils

her broken fingers trembled

as the vivid scars on her pale neck

drew another drop of blood

and dripped down her cotton gown

.

the dim lamp pulled back

arches of demonic silhouettes

sleeping beside her with

their fangs bared beneath fragile flesh

,

she was terrified to move

even a sinew or a twitch of a muscle

frightened that she might get hurt

scared that she might feel pain again

.

the stars cackled their sympathies

in the cracks of the closed venetian blinds

and the moon was like a watchful eye

under an impairing blindfold

.

the night was dragged by the ticking

of the ancient pendulum clock

every now and then clanging boastfully

but she didn’t flinch; no, she daren’t

.

simply lying there in silent agony

without a warning or a clue of

the dust that gathers in her eyes like

the old tears she couldn’t shed anymore

.

and her incensed thoughts were louder

than the wailing, moaning, and screeching

of the vile creatures she was damned

to remain in ill-fated company with

,

she gritted her teeth and clenched her knuckles

as the abominations stirred, squirming and

writhing in her mattress, and every touch

felt like a thousand tiny pieces of rusty razors

.

her catatonic body was stiff as a corpse

as she counted the hours until morning arrives

when all the monsters disappear from her room

so she could stop holding her stale breath

and bandage her freshly-cut wounds.

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Merry Christmas Is Too Cliché, I’ll Burn Down Your House Instead

Now I hope you’re happy with yourself, ’cause I’m not laughing
Don’t you think it’s kind of crappy what you did this holiday?
When I gave you my heart, you ripped it apart
Like wrapping paper trash, so I wrote you a song
Hope that you sing along, and it goes
“Merry Christmas, kiss my ass!”

~*~

I waited 359 days for the day

You’ll wake up and see the star blink out

On the top of your christmas tree

And I’ll be just fine and merry

‘Cause baby, it’s cold outside

And the weather’s as frigid as your soul

But guess you knew all that

When you buried me under the snow

And the bells may be a’jingling

But my face is numb and tingling

From all the endless and forced laughing

As the carolers continue wailing

Say you’re Santa Claus ‘cause you went to town

I got my eggnog when I got you down

You once were sweet like striped candy cane

And now you’re just stuffed like a red stocking again

But 12 days ain’t enough to keep you satisfied

I’ve had my fill, now I wanna throw up

The silent night turned into total manic chaos

All I want for christmas is you, to shut the fuck up

I’m on my own, so wrap me up

Like a delicate present, and rip me up

I’ll be the cookie drowning in your sweet milk

The soot in your chimney, coal and ink

And play, and play all the songs once more

About how this holiday is keeping score

Month of goodwill, hope, and festive season

When it’s nothing but a festering commercialism

Naughty’s being nice, and Santa ain’t true

But even if he was, well he won’t ever visit you

Gun down the sleighs, trip the reindeers

Ho ho holy shit this whole thing is just a derriere

But christmas miracles do happen, so they say

And your good-for-nothing face went away

I hope you choke on your tinsel and peppermint

I’ll hang myself by the christmas lights like an ornament

The sense of rude nostalgia, and all the childish feels

Of you begging for more presents, you got me hot on my heels

And if the decorations are blocking your misery

Call me gingerbread man, because you can eat me

And tonight I’m gonna burn the mistletoe down

To forget what happened under its boughs

And use it as minty poison on my lips

For your goodbye kiss, pucker up, and I’ll take it real slow

‘Cause I waited 359 days for the moment

Thar I could write another trite and cliched song

About my damn trashy special little snowflake

And how everyone got this christmas bullshit all wrong.

~*~

No, fuck you girl, I’m going out
I gave you my all, but our love hit a wall, now
I’m jingle belling, and everyone’s yelling
We’ll drink ’til the bars shut us down
Ain’t that just what Christmas is all about?

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Mary’s Counting Dead Sheep Again

Mary had a little dream
Her eyes were blank and cold
And everywhere that Mary went
The beasts were sure to go…

~*~

Another night spent where there’s nothing but wasted thoughts arbitrarily presenting itself behind my star-sewn eyelids, slaughtering and slandering what little is left of the fleecy drowsiness that I stared the myriad astral bodies into. Horizons blend from honeysuckle sunsets into a velvety-rich midnight, every jaded memory and faded remembrance lying somnolent on my bed, and activated by the flick of an overused lamp switch. Nondescript chagrin is pressing softly at the back of my inundated throat; later on I’m aware that this force will grow until I begin to choke and fail to intake oxygen. For now, I exhale tiredly. The weight of the world trails behind my breath and sinks in the disturbed dust, kicking up old resentments.

I feel vexed. I shouldn’t be trusted to live up to the chimerical expectations that everyone has written down for me in indelible ink, as if it was the byzantine code that would unlock my stubborn rusted heart if they sharpened their blunt needles and tattooed it under the layers of my diaphanous flesh, into my clenched and straining muscles. It hurts, doesn’t it? The bared grins sneer unsympathetically, claws holding me down with incontestable strength, and it’s all I could do to complacently nod, cautiously wary of the glinting guillotine that’s dangling only inches away from my stiffened neck. I’m merely a plaster-cast mind, deranged and cracking under the pressure of the tattered cassock’s final judgment, and someday they will unsheathe me and mock my abstract art.

Despite the vainglorious efforts, painstaking hands filling in the voided gaps with purified liquid gold won’t fix me. It may look to be a desirable effect; yes, and perhaps it would do me good to have a little bit of luminance in the bare, simple vessel I questionably call my body. But in the end it’s nothing but a deceitful playact, an illusion of smoke and mirrors, fragrant cerise roses beneath the ravenous mucilage monster waiting for dear sweet Mary to reach out her delicate hands and get her cherry blonde locks entangled in the lethal thorns. And I do not wish to be darling strawberry-cheeked Mary, adored and oh-so glorified by everyone, yet playing the unfortunate lifeless victim in the end. I won’t be the one being grieved over, I won’t be at the receiving end of the sword; rather, I’ll be the merciless hand holding the ax and wiping the poison off her pallid blue lips.

And where does the verdict of the counseling jury lie, staring down upon me condescendingly with my indelible inked-on vices and gaping neck wounds from grazing the guillotine blade and the inevitable tempered gold patching up my shattered bones, as I hide the bloody murder weapon behind my back and cross my broken fingers, still tasting little Mary’s most saccharine sin and feeling the prickling sensations dig deep into my engraved palms? Will they immediately claim me guilty? Or is my goading charisma enough to get the edacious wolves begging for my forgiveness to save the hunt for another day? The questions hang from my pastel ceiling dreamily, yet the answer rests in my lurid nightmares, I know. I know. For now, I hold my breath and slowly close my star-sewn eyelids, counting the wasted thoughts dragging into another night spent and another soul selling out. One, two, three, four, five…

~*~

…They followed her when she woke up
She woke up, she woke up
They crept into her fragile heart
And made its beating stop.

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Stares on the Staircase

It’s more the same, a silly old shame
A dimly lit road, it will wither and go
I climb the light post, illuminate the road
For miles away, so safely on your way…

~*~

Counting all the steps on the spiraling staircase

Falling down and breaking my neck with grace

Didn’t know how much the water meant a thing

Until I quickly slipped away and lost my footing

I’ve counted all the steps on the spiraling staircase

Treads in the dark, but guess I counted it all wrong

It never meant a thing to you, it’s just a creaky place

‘Til my broken body’s lying motionless at the bottom.

~*~

Sleep and awaking to life, for a hell of a ride
Sleep and awaking to life
With your hands at your side, paralyzed…

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Small Talk

“If I die now, you’ll be fine, wouldn’t you?” Came the morbid question, startlingly from out of nowhere, the tone rather earnest and solemn, as the rest of her contradictory body moved to pack up her bright clothes and stunning makeup in preparation for the party she was going to attend in that very evening; a glamorous night out in the city hotel for endless hours of revelry and colourful strobe lights and dancing with her inebriated friends.

“Not if I die first.” Was the equally-morbid devil-may-care reply, swift and acerbic, passed off in a jovial manner, accompanied by an amused grin and a playful hand slap, as he continued to stare jadedly at the glaring screen of his computer, thinking about the bottles of whiskey and cola that he secretly stashed away at the very back of the fridge, to be consumed later on at midnight in his bedroom with some crisps; a little party of his own.

They both smiled at each other quietly and let the conversation slide, and they went about with their business. They knew neither one was joking. And they knew they couldn’t do anything about it. So they just pretended to laugh.

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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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Missed Call

“We make up horrors to help us cope with the real ones.”
~Stephen King

~*~

Every night after his funeral, I always called him on the mobile phone that was buried with him to hear him speaking on the voicemail. Call me rather morbid, but it was simply a little ritual that somehow kept me sane after the loss of my dearest beloved. Though after the events that transpired tonight, I do begin to wonder if I really have managed to retain my sanity after all. Just like any other night, I dialed his number and tapped on the call button; but as I did so, I suddenly heard his ringtone play loudly under my bed. And just as if things couldn’t get any worse, the phone on the other end of the line picked up.

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I Put the “Fun” in Funeral

Get down, get low, turn the radio on
You’re invited to a graveyard party tonight
Punk is heavy and the moon is full
Dead never looked to beautiful…

~*~

Don’t expect me back next morning

I’ll be busy shopping for body bags

And tagging my own fresh cadaver

The grave won’t dig itself, you’ll see

.

Don’t expect my visit this afternoon

I’ll be sniffing aroma formaldehyde

And letting my tailor sew me a suit

I’m composing my eulogy, obituary

.

Don’t expect me to sit on for supper

I’ll have a chat with the undertaker

Updated my last will and testament

For the church pastor’s wake litany

.

Don’t expect me to stay for tonight

I’m picking the colour of my coffin

And planning funeral arrangements

But you’re welcome to come with me

.

Don’t expect me to be here for forever

And stick around for this deadbeat life

Baby, don’t you see? You’re the reason

Why I’m throwing this party, honestly.

~*~

What happened to the life of the party?
I’m not kidding, we’re all dead
Now everybody’s passed out, face down
The sun is rising and the fire has faded away
And even if we have to move it to the next town

We’re gonna rock it, this week anyway.
D-I-E…we won’t be dead forever!

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