Tag Archives: twist

In Excelsis

He proclaims to ravage your sanctity with the act of a knighted defender

Find another way to twist the tales, for he’s the tactless paladin, oh-so clever

And he’s far too proud to suck the hollow fibs right off of his glowing teeth

But when it goes around, it comes around, so just strike a match for his greed

Because he’s most obviously the higher man in such a simpleminded charade

Crashes his temples against the ground three times so you would hear his pity parade

He’s better off, he’s better now, he’s still stuck grovelling in his plagiarised sanctimony

All hail to the king and his fucking sharp things, his blood’s thicker with every abusive elegy.

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Stagehand

It’s almost exquisite now,

The way chewed nails drag

Softly behind the curtain

As if a total nervous wreck

Before the ultimate show begins

.

And the encore is just

A fake bloody kiss, and the

Applause is rather hit or miss

And the trained actors are stiffer

Than all the cardboard props

.

But when the rusty spotlight

Comes around, and the lines

Are mimicked badly, they will

Graciously go save you a fromt

Row seat for the entire family

.

Leave behind a single rose

Plucked from a severed tooth

And twist the fingers of every last

Dying enemy, for the end of yet

Another successful blasphemy.

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Sweetest Intimacy

Would you let me

Place my tender hands

On your warm chest

So I could cut you open

With a blunt scalpel

And let my fingers flow

Against your insides

That slippery sensation

Of panicking blood

Against this living flesh

Crushing the oxygen

Tracing lines around your

Lungs like star signs

Of a sky trapped behind

An ivory cage—spare

Me a rib or a vein or two

As my hands shall be

Exploring you way further

Find organs to suture

Or prod you into laughter

Are you ticklish here?

On your stomach, in your

Punctured diaphragm

No need to ask if you have

Got the guts, but don’t

Be heartless, I’ll miss your

Larynx for that chuckle

All before I stain your neck

With the red of your

Slowing aorta, and set you

Free with a final gasp

And just one gentle little snap.

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Elizabeth and the Zealot

His embittered smile proclaims of an innocently senile man, but his rancid breath reeks of irreparable psychological damage.

Outside, a group of children playing tag in the playground across the street, clambering across loose gravel and joyously shrieking as outstretched hands willingly grab for their shoulders, caught unaware and simply caught.

Inside his shirt, the old crucifix his long-deceased mother gave him on the brink of her deathbed, clasp half-broken and several priceless encrusted jewels missing; a toothless grin, unfaithful gaps. The tiny metal weighs heavily against his unwashed chest, the unpleasant sensation almost burning a hole through his heart. Sometimes, he mutters a memorised creed out of reflex, though no one believes in it anymore. Perhaps not even God Himself. But him?

Mindless gazes. The chipped, mouldy statue of a weeping wooden saint in one dark nook of the living room, rotting food and dusty candles its ever-resilient offering. The mirror, barely reflective, smudged with soot and cobwebs and his tuberculosis-infected saliva. The closed window beside him like a sleepy eye, tiringly wary as it occasionally betrays a resounding laugh or a glimpse of excitedly-billowing hair. He forgets so many things nowadays, but he always remembers. The children. He must watch the children.

Or else?

Or else…

Grabbing his ragged coat from the settee, the man coughed into his fist once, twice, and absently wiped the offending knuckle onto his beige pants. He headed for the door and resolutely grabbed the tarnished doorknob with a shaky hand. The hinges squeaked. A child, perhaps the acting leader of the pack, called out for everyone’s attention as he insisted to play hide and seek.

A countdown, and the palpable air of small bodies scattering. The man decided musingly, that he would humour them and join in their little pastime. He’s always been good at hiding. Though, he sighed out in quiet lamentation, with his old age and raging rheumatism, it would not really make the job any easier for him.

But only one child would win the game that night.

No one would ever find her.

He’ll make sure of that.

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The Devil’s Vision

Must I denounce myself as a monster while you refuse to see the one growing inside you?” ~Hannibal Lecter

~*~

He drips blood from the corners of his sightless eyes

And wipes it off silently, praying no one has seen his lies

But the devil drew smiles just as he drew out red water

Devour the mind and heart, teeth a grim rorschach splatter

“What do you see?” asks he, as the clock begins unraveling

He pretends the blindfold is tight enough to obscure sin

Enemies will flee as their friends are turned upside-down

The blunt instrument glints, a masquerade of gruesome frowns

And at the edge of the madness, the verge of suspended hell again

The devil sits with discretion, adjusting his veil of human skin

As he tends to the fear, crying in vain, losing their very humanity

And the devil is hungry, oh-so hungry—“do…you…see…?”

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Filed under Fandom Poetry, Poetry

Domestic Park

Desk drawers

Fractured tibia

Stopwatch red

Dream febricula

Medicated blues

Hangover sober

Ready-set overdose

Insides uncovered

Busted-up mouth

Bloodied ceiling

Cracked linoleum

Window unhinging

Screaming children

Playground purple

Tempest tantrums

Drainage overfull

Halted arguments

Gossipy neigbours

“Do-not-cross” tape

Handcuffed endeavour

Guilt-ridden laughter

Covered up with tears

Madness manifesting

“I didn’t do it, dear.”

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The Division

Let me count the ways you kill me;

1.) You carved promises at the notches of my brittle bones, mercilessly enthralling and hypnotising me under the anaesthetic assurance that everything was fine, that I was fine, and that I wouldn’t ever have to destroy myself again; but all the while, you crushed the very foundations beneath my suspended feet and made heaven shatter all around me like an ethereal motion sickness. And as if that wasn’t enough, you set everything on fire and watched this wretched phoenix turn to listless ashes, never to rise again; a demented conflagration.

2.) You promised me for better or for worse, but as I tried to find new names for the shade of red in my lips, you forgot about the obscene sickness that’s violently heaving inside my compromised chest and without so much as a twinge of second chances or point-blank hesitation, you injected every indistinct symptom known and unknown to man, turning my shaky breaths to crystalline lilacs and my selfish ribs to impure glass. I asked for a cure, and instead I received a despicable panacea, a myriad riot of plagues that irreparably devastated my system, ripping me to irreversible shreds. “You can’t get hurt if all you feel is hurt, right?”

3.) I’ve got hands like houses, and you rejected my severed hospitality as you broke down every locked door and deceptive boundary like it was nothing; like I was nothing. I constantly find myself lost in complicated syncopes, as I’m trapped spiraling and crawling back to the same self-sustaining cycles of parabolic grief and hypertensive schizophrenia, predicting premonitions that never came true. This eternal winter freezing over my bloodline is stitched together by a million blizzards and snowstorms conspiring exquisitely at once, but this difficult tantrum of a weather is not a tribulation to you, is it? Your cold temper is intolerable, a thousand suns melding together and detonating convulsively in the empty vacuum of space, and there’s no one else around to hear me scream one last time. I wanted to burn. You took it too far.

4.) Were you even sorry? Did you even feel a single taste of contrition when you watched my starving, pathetic soul grapple for life at the very nave of that decimated altar, asking for the silhouetted universe to fall on my back so that it wouldn’t be my fault, nor yours, that everything got screwed over? Did you see what I’ve done, just so I wouldn’t be what you’ve become? I couldn’t find my way back on the ground, so I swallowed my pride like pried coffin nails for the sake of a more poignant memory to remember; retribution heals what time cannot. Yet now I close my reckless eyes and softly coalesce in sadistic plumes of the miserable discourse you call an intravenous love, and I beg, and I beg. Were you even sorry at all?

5.) You are me, and I am you. I have no one. You are no one. When you lived, I died; and when you died, I along with you. I called it genocide. They called it desperation. For I am me, and you are you. There was no one else. They called it suicide. I call it salvation.

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Don’t Turn The Tables Sweetheart, You’re Gonna Dizzy Yourself Sick

Well, she’s not bleeding on the ballroom floor
Just for the attention, ‘cause that’s just ridiculously odd
Well, she sure is going to get it, here’s the setting
Fashion magazines line the walls now, the walls line the bullet holes
Have some composure and where is your posture? Oh, no, no!
You’re pulling the trigger, pulling the trigger all wrong…

~*~

You act like you’ve got a pretty laugh stuck in your ragged throat

Proud of the way you dirty your skin, proud of the way you gloat

About the veins, they’re just veins, they’re just another empty sea

I don’t want to swim, I don’t want to sink, I don’t want to censor me

.

Can you see the way I twist my hair into a noose that I’ll never hang?

Well the knots have hurt my fingers and for a moment my hands stung

All this beauty left to be romantic about, but sometimes nature is a bore

The bayside’s wayside in screaming trees, sometimes nature is a whore

.

When we did it, it was funny, it was temporary, it was just a tragedy

Coming from the cheap seats and you clapped for the longest irony

Now it’s your turn, it’s not funny, it’s forever, it’s a bruised symphony

We paid the balcony scene just to watch a charcoal sob for a penny

.

And your lips spill with attention and gush that you don’t want any

Paint the crooked crucifix on your pallid cheeks with bitter and honey

Now all the hypocrites adore you, blood-type A of sycophantic rude

Play a victim with a rifle to their shoulders, act as if it’s how you should

.

Now the trigger smiles so happy, does that bullet taste like sweet candy?

Do the fucking polaroids show off the best sides of your broken inhumanity?

Make us sorry that this reality didn’t fit your peach-twill dress and sanity

Was it your idea to put the slit in your throat so you can pretend that it’s originality?

~*~

Give me envy, give me malice, give me your attention!
Give me envy, give me malice, baby, give me a break!
When I say shotgun, you say wedding: shotgun, wedding, shotgun, wedding!
She didn’t choose this role, but she’ll play it and make it sincere
So you cry, you cry (give me a break) but they believe it from the tears
And the teeth right down to the blood at her feet…

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lost at sea

Can you tell me what hurts more
Is it remembering, or forgetting
The past that once was ours?
Am I remembering
Still remembering, or forgetting?

~*~

bring the driftwood

i call my own heart

back to the safe shore

and brush off the splinters

from your open ribs…

remember that without you,

i would not be found—

but never forget that you

were the one who lost

me in the first place.

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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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