Tattoos and burns
My body tells the story
In cryptic code
of Cain's legacy
He has given me over
To my own depraved mind
Like father like son
The thing you created
Is the thing you love to hate
A cryptic language
Carved into my skin
Reminding me
Of every sin
There’s
Two parts of a whole
Each set against the other
Wanting to tear me apart
I feel the days pass
My bones want to come out
Flesh burns away
Twisting entrails hold poisons
A heart filled with cyanide
Epidermis embedded with glass and tacks
Foreign objects of metallic origin
A cryptic language
Carved into my skin
Reminding me
Of every sin
In my dreams
Wild dogs chase me all night
A black river in the forest
Two strange girls on the banks laugh and hold me
I shout out strange words in my sleep
Running in all directions
Following the glow of some distant light
Of Masks and Maps
Discerning between dream and reality
Is a difficult thing
As I follow the Black River east
Posts
Mud,
ReplyDeleteYou may have been reading a bit too much Charles Bukowski.
Nicely done.
The Frog-a-roo
Somewhere between Carcass and Cradle of Filth, if you don't mind me saying that.
ReplyDeleteVery suggestive in a pleasantly disturbing way.
Said the Eye one day, "I see beyond these valleys a mountain veiled with blue mist. Is it not beautiful?"
ReplyDeleteThe Ear listened, and after listening intently awhile, said, "But where is any mountain? I do not hear it."
Then the Hand spoke and said, "I am trying in vain to feel it or touch it, and I can find no mountain."
And the Nose said, "There is no mountain, I cannot smell it."
Then the Eye turned the other way, and they all began to talk together about the Eye's strange delusion. And they said, "Something must be the matter with the Eye."
The Madman
The Eye
Kahlil Gibran
Carcass? If you have one, pack it in dry ice and i'll pay the shipping +.
ReplyDeleteI'm studying, as you know, to become a Haruspex.
Mud,
ReplyDeleteCheck this one out. There are very real paralells to your own, especially, go to the ///// and start reading there if you dont want to read it all. It sounds like your present mood.
Grave Girl
I found her sitting on a gravestone. She was talking to herself and cutting up handwritten letters with the biggest pair of scissors I had ever seen.
‘Hello’, I said.
‘Hello’, she smiled, nimbly snipping away.
‘Whom are you talking to?’
‘Everyone’ she smiled, waving her arms around the cemetery.
I smiled. ‘And why are you destroying those letters?’
‘I am not destroying them,’ she insisted, ‘I am just cutting all of the words out. I love words’
‘But why are you cutting all of the words out?’ I asked.
‘Because they are in the wrong order. And some of them,’ she theatrically sighed, ‘have been incorrectly spelt. What is your favourite word?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said, wishing I could think of something magnificent. ‘I quite like oxymoron’.
‘Oh that’s a great word’ she laughed, ‘Isobella Monkton’s favourite word is cantankerous’.
‘Who is Isobella Monkton?’ I asked.
‘Isobella is over there,’ smiled the girl, gesturing towards a broken-nosed marble statue covered in ivy. ‘She sadly died in 1842’.
Whilst the girl was clearly loopy, I found her manner quite delightful, and so, not wishing to offend, I half-waved in Isobella’s direction and continued our conversation. ‘What is your favourite word?’
The girl carefully placed her giant scissors by her side and paused for a moment. ‘Oh I have so many favourites.///////// It’s really hard to say, and it all depends upon my mood. Currently my favourite word is melancholy’.
‘Melancholy,’ I sighed. ‘I’ve been melancholy all my life. In fact I was going to say melancholy but I thought you might be frightened by such a word and so I said oxymoron.
‘Why would I be frightened of the word melancholy?’ asked the girl, clearly perplexed.
‘Well,’ I tried to explain, ‘whenever you say words like that, people are a bit shocked. They don’t know what to do with themselves. The moment they hear such words they form an opinion of you – normally a misguided opinion of you. It’s like telling someone you once had the depressions, or your favourite pop group is The Smiths. The moment you say it, you can see their faces change. Fear consumes them and they either want to stop talking to you - pretend that you’re no longer there - or they want to run away’
‘I love The Smiths,’ cried the girl, laughing for the first time.
‘Me too,’ I gushed. ‘What’s your favourite Smith’s song?’
And then it happened. The most wonderful thing in the whole wide world happened. In a cemetery. The girl began to sing. ‘A dreaded sunny day, so I’ll meet you at the cemetery gates… Keats and Yeats are on your side…’ Oh it was wondrous. Truly wondrous. I wanted her to go on forever. I wanted her to never stop. But the girl said she had other things to do and she needed to be alone for a while because ‘cutting out words and putting them back in the right order takes a lot of concentration’. I said I understood. I would bother her no more. But I was devastated. Truly devastated. Would I ever see her again? Did she feel the ‘stuff in the air’? I didn’t even know her name? There was so much I should have said. So many things I wished I’d asked and now it was too late. I had missed my one and only chance.
I closed the cemetery gate, lit a cheap-cigarette and slowly made my way back home.-----Andre Jordon, UK
Thanks
ReplyDeleteI think Filth (thats his name) writes better than I do (or will ever hope to). I really love the music though.
Thanks for the story Froggie. I liked reading it while the stupid christian girl was making some sort of noise.
gtg
I met Cradle backstage during their first tour of Germany (somewhen in the mid-90s), and Filth let me call him Dani ;) He still owes me a cigarette :D
ReplyDeleteVery nicely done :)
ReplyDelete/salute