Portrait of Evil (warning disturbing)


I like the sound of your joints unlocking

Like a deadbolt in emergency set, the irony

Of your immoveable limbs pressed into

Uninhabitable geometries in a futile

Endeavor to rage against confinement

I like the silence of your dry mouth

Tumbling at the realization of a

Ensuing winter, of a winter that

Suffers affection only through the

Administration of wicked black frost


I like the smell of copper falling into

A wishless well as your hands grip a

Godless leather book in pathetic

Submission to your Godless prayers

I like the smell of a freshly laid victim

Whose unwillingness to conform to

A superior sex has rendered her fear

Contrived pallor a magnificent red


I like the feel of my palms against your

Throat the bruised palate of flesh blossoming

Beneath my artistic fingers, the cadaverous

Mantle of malignant shadows which cleverly

Define the inferiority of your volatile half-life

I like the silky texture of torn flesh pink and

Vicious, like the razor-blade confessions of a

Mute vulnerability, the paper-wrapped carcass

That defines me as much aesthete as butcher


I like the way your eyes look when

The stitches between pupil and

Iris split apart and a black, porous

Panic overtakes your vapid composure

I like the fullness of your pouting mouth

Bloodied and askew with an incoherent

Agony, the inhuman whimpers drawn

From the bowels of a primitive despair


I like the taste of you cold and metallic

In the semi-consciousness of a false goodbye

The taste of your stagnate breath resisting life

Of your tongue fermented with the dark wine

Of an unresolvable addiction. I like the taste

Of power the dexterous knot of a manipulated

Cherry stem, of a malleable martyr silenced

By the threat of mastication, if not for survival

Instincts I would have destroyed you long ago


One day when my senses are no longer aroused

By the application of your suffering I will kill

You and myself through confession but not until

I have disposed of the contents within us both

And fashioned of you a workable body bag


This is fictional in a manner of speaking. I have said as much in previous posts but my father is a psychopath. He used to talk at great length and with great pride about his victims, particularly the women he abused so I have had a much too close for comfort look inside the sick mind of evil and that is where this stems from. I am not a psychopath myself and so I can’t presume that I have given an accurate portrait this is just based on those horrible horrible conversations I heard growing up


Day 16 “A Song For A Wedding?”


I know there a lot of fabulous love songs out there with water work lyrics but I chose something charming, cute, and lively. I am sorry for the quality for some reason none of the available versions had decent quality. For my husband and I this is the kind of love song that more closely embodies us because although we are romantic, we don’t take ourselves too seriously. My ultimate romantic vision was to be given a bubble gum machine ring, granted I was a teenager at the time, but I haven’t changed much. I still prefer thoughtful, sweet, silliness over extravagant gifts and stuffy dinners in restaurants with miniature replicas of the Eiffel tower in the place of food. I don’t think money improves the quality of a gift, I think it’s sentiment.