Tag Archives: murder

anatomical dissection: legs

frustrated red nails

dragged down soft thighs

leaving redder marks

overlapping with older lines

.

red tresses torn apart

like the skin that once flays

leave red-shame faces

murdering a less-violent display.

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This Uselessness is Murder.

I try to walk away, how has it come to this?
I’ve said it once, I’ve said it twice, 
I’ve said it a thousand fucking times
That I’m okay, that I’m fine, that it’s all just in my mind
But this has got the best of me, and I can’t seem to sleep…

~*~

Idling away with nothing but my butane thoughts

To reinforce the growing rot in my kindling head

Godforsaken memories ungraciously worm their way

Back from repressed twinge and into my unmade bed

Longing for a grandiose escape from this noetic asylum

I call my own mentality, as I keep desperately clawing

At the thin bleached walls of my own bleeding skull

But never shattering it completely, and only left dying

And I honestly just can’t fucking stand this sedentary state

Eyes left reduced to another silent ticking timebomb

Working my dull teeth’s grind like it’s a paying day’s job

Doing everything I can to keep myself blisslessly numb

And the worst part is when the overthinking kicks in

Hitting me straight in my fractured chest again and again until

I couldn’t breathe anymore, and until I would just about do

Anything, anything at all, just to distract myself and not to feel

And when the mollifying rain stops and the vengeful heat returns

To exacerbate the heavily-settling hell of a migraine inside

It’s all I can do to groan inhumanely and suffocate myself on the pillow

Realising wretchedly that summer hasn’t even started—and I’ve already died.

~*~

Every second, every minute
Every hour, every day
It never ends, it never ends
Every second, every minute
Every hour, every day
It never ends, it never ends…

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Talk It Out

You got two black eyes from loving too hard
And a black car that matches your blackest soul
I wouldn’t change you, oh, oh
Wouldn’t ever try to make you leave, no…

~*~

You don’t need my puerile mouth to bleed

So delete me from your life and never look back

I’m just another all-assuming, time-consuming need

Ad-libbing in your face like bum bum, sad fuck

And I get it, I swear to hell, I really do get it

You don’t deserve qualms, and I don’t deserve shit

Making stories, faking memories, did that really happen?

I would try to remember, but I wasn’t there then

So go on and hold the sharp grudge against my throat

But please wait your turn to capsize the sinking boat

Backlash chaos, laughing in mania and apology

Liquid sarcasm tastes as sweet as spoiled royal milk tea

You’ll be the judge bringing the gavel down my head

I’ll be the death sentence man winking once before I’m dead

But guess I don’t need your putrid mouth to bleed

And you’re just another time-assuming, all-consuming greed

Let’s explode one more time and crash in wasted gasoline

Before I delete you from my life and never look back from the murder scene.

~*~

The high rise lights read your rights
And a downtown storm with aries rising
Couldn’t change you, oh, oh
Couldn’t ever try to make you see, no…

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The Madman’s Magnum Opus

Insane is all I know right now, and my head feels demented

My nails fall out, my gums decay, before I get sedated

I choke on my teeth and swallow a few, shit, it feels hard

As they wring the spit from my eyes and again I’m a discard

So numb that I couldn’t feel the knife on my spine anymore

And I couldn’t count the tally marks screaming on the wall

Keeping track of the infinite days when the demon lets me be

And inches its fangs closer to put me out of my stagnant misery

.

Because the blood tastes more delectable when it’s not my own

As the whores that I corrupted bring my wasted body home

They don’t flinch at the maggots that they suck from my mouth

But they do protest before the chloroform hits their breathing south

No no, it’s not torture, I promise I won’t ever hurt you, my dear

I just wish to lick away all your mingling doubts and puerile fear

But don’t piss yourself, don’t soil your skin, or I’ll be very mad indeed

Behave yourself and stay sweet as hell, or you’ll die before you heed

.

But they caught me revering over one of my masterpiece creations one day

Yelling loud profanities to such beauties, that’s not a very nice thing to say

They dislocated my shoulder just trying to put my artistic hands in cuffs

And took away my beloved artworks, goddamn these useless criticising cops

So that’s how I ended up in here, living and sleeping in a filthy jail cell

With a colossal man who uses me to play every night as if I couldn’t even tell

The food is bland, the nurses laugh, the doctors give me exclusive diseases

The medicine is cheap and expired, putting my mind under heavy poisoned dazes

.

But it’s alright, because the girls I love visit me when no one else is looking

Their breaths may be putrid, their bones may protrude, but I won’t be complaining

And they’re building a rope out of their intestines to help with my grand escape

Don’t worry, I’ll be back to make you feel loved again, so just you patiently wait

They may inject cholera and botulism in me, and force me to see an underpaid shrink

But I won’t be deluded at all, no, as clear as a dark day I can still properly think

I’ll lace my pustule-dotted hands with anthrax and touch them until they’re all dead

Writhing on the floor as I step on their bodies, no one can help these bastards now

.

But for now, insane is all I can ever know, and all this pain feels rather demented

My cheeks slough off, my ears leak brain fluid, yet I feel so divinely elevated

I suffocate on plastic pills and jolt again from the electroshock, shit, it’s such a buzz

As they wring the tears from my broken neck and again I black out with a slurred cuss

So insensible I couldn’t feel the rusted scalpel slicing out my frontal lobe anymore

But I wouldn’t have to count the scratched tally marks shrieking at me on the stone wall

Because when the demon rends another piece from my heart and transfers immortality

Vengeance will be served and heads will roll; this world is damned, so I’ll add a little more beauty.

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Filed under Poetry, Valentines Poetry

Miss Mercenary

You had me hooked, careless and cunning
You had your throne, but now you’re nothing
You had me hooked, careless and cunning
You had your throne, but now you’re nothing…

~*~

A maiden for the silken sheets

A muse for the midnight masquerade

Amorous amorphous on feather pillows

A demure bonny on the pasquinade

.

A madwoman for the asphalt streets

A machine for the telephone’s hold

Astounding magic and death-defying acts

Aspiration generation, metal heart so cold

.

A mistress for all your petty problems

A megalomaniac for your world to rule

Alleviate and apprehend momentum quick again

Apathetic monarchy for the masses to adore and endure

.

A miss murder for the mean memorial of the brothels

A monster for the messy and mercurial meltdown motels

Arrogant tease decadent, astringent, leading you on well

All before she shows her blackened eyes and drags you down to hell.

~*~

Fading like the makeup from my sheets
And I’m leaving, send the orders for retreat
I laid to rest this war that we called “love”
It’s for the best and what’s done is done…

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upside

down

in every sense of the word

looking for a way

to distract my thoughts

against contrition

“i’m tired” i complain

as if i just wasn’t

already long used to it

left behind

by all the chatter

why am i still hoping?

“you fucked up

something again”

my mind screams at me

even though i know

i didn’t (did i?)

“i’m alone”

i mused dumbly

as if it wasn’t such

a daily norm

breaking blood

and draining bones

from its brewing storm

“the sun is murder”

melting away as the

heat and faceless crowd

further add to

this delirious stupor

“why am i still here?”

i want to go home

so i can seek death in peace

and be alone to feel

down

in every sense of the word.

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Consumed

Yeah, this is what I do, take another bite
Big enough to chew
She said, “Careful, or you’ll lose it”
But girl, I’m only human
And I know there’s a blade where your heart is
And you know how to use it…


Entrée # 1: Hors d’œuvre

There’s blood in my fingers from where you broke them clean

Take another bite of my quivering torso, gut the blade in my spleen

I’ll be alright, my bloodshot eyes roll back at your finer tastes

If you’re planning to murder me, dear, just don’t let me go to waste


Entrée #2: Apéritif

I couldn’t lose it, I wouldn’t lose it, this time, this time I swear

They all look so goddamn tantialising to me, they’re all so unaware

My cracked lips are watering at the thought of flesh rather aged

I’m five seconds away from counting down and going into a rampage


Fine Dining: Plat Principal

The rioting voices in my head screamed “Run, why don’t you?!”

But I’m afraid I’m enjoying my own homicide scene far too much to stop

Turn around, let me see the perpetrator, let me take you through

It’s not fair, with every gland and chemical, they ruptured in another trap


Save Some Room: Assiette à Dessert

What…what the fuck happened? All I see is a decaying cadaver still smiling

And sweet postmortem laughter digging at the back of my head, latching to me

I searched for a drag, lost restraint again, and satisfied myself with my  f e e d

I said that I’ll stop killing for greed, but I never said I’ll stop for what I  n e e d.


And you can take my flesh if you want, girl
But, baby, don’t abuse it
These voices in my head screaming, “Run, now”
I’m praying that they’re human…

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Filed under Poetry

murder the moment

i know how

to kill now

but more

importantly,

i know how

to fucking die.

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Filed under Poetry

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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Filed under Prose

unempathology

waiting sullenly

for nothing

amusing with

pathological lies

thoughts of

arson and murder

a thousand ways

to fucking die

waiting worn-out

contemplating

the demise of both

opposed parties

to who gets killed first

it won’t be a mere

act of cruel vengeance

but an act of mercy.

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