Back-Story of a CarcassA man on the ice in the snow on the wormsEmpty handed with empty pockets, and looking for a reason to get up.A backstabber with bad aim and scars down his spine;His naivety betrays him. The falling flakes tickle the spotlight bestowed upon himBy a rusty light pole who just stood there watchingWhen another man with shadows in his eyesAnd a medical bill on his kitchen counterStinking of stale whiskey and in need of a cigaretteKnocked the backstabber down with the blade of a sticky pocketknifeBack-story of this carcass:A spelling trophy in 3rd grade and a broken heart in 10thNo children to miss him, and no wife to leave himA macaroni picture on his fridge;From Tommy next doorTo Mister Nice GuyRight next to last Halloween's uneaten candyMaybe it's better this wayHis eyes shut with a bitter smile
Speak to Me Speak to me in roars and booms like thunder,To inspire wild visions in wonder.Or whisper like the softest breeze in springOf a scholar who overthrew the king.Debate in Fauvist colours, shamelessly brightAnd dare to make sunshine in the dead of night.Shout and scream, hoarse as the Bedlam inmateOn the dagger-sharp edges of cruel fate.Lie to me in dull dreams like a trickster god,Tell tales where I can spark like a lightning rod.Murmur in tones from falsetto to baritoneAnd make the planets rumble with a song of their own.Sing to me more skillfully than an opera star,Like an angel but holier by far.Laugh like Balder before the arrow struck;Confident, easy and just out of luck. But don't stay silent.
schizophreniahollow godswhisper heaving static--i dream of ghosts.
ExecutionerI saw them in the hallsI heard them murmuring blasphemeAnd they ignored meThey’re only society’s childrenEach of them were drenched in depravityAnd they were gorged on man’s bloodTheir words were obscureAnd I killed them allI ripped off their grey facesI spat in their eyesAnd I defiled their remainsNow I’m covered in their filthAnd I sink into their meatAnd I’ve become their demonI’ve become humanity’s nightmare
The words of the dead and dyingThe words of the dead and dying are prophetic, carrying weight far beyond the promises or threats of the living. For a living girl, to say that she would wait forever for her lover to return was a simple thing. A mere promise, even if she meant it with all her heart. The priest sighed, then, as he entered the house of the dying girl. Some fever had struck her, along with a pain in her stomach that would not fade—it could be no babe, unless she had been as blessed as the Virgin Mary, and she had carried this pain for nearly a year now—and now she was ready to leave this world behind.He had been tending to her for most of the previous year, but he had been a frequent visitor for some time before. Her dearest love had left her behind for a war in France across the sea almost ten years before, and though he had written her letters, the girl could not read. The priest could, though in this case he wished he could not. But it was his God