The cold caress of pelagic eyes
Over my still dripping wounds,
Once enunciated rejection is futile.
What chance offered could be seized?
An organic cynosure,
A fearsome mermaid
Glazed in salt and sand with skin
The color of unshucked oysters.
–
My heart is a harbor
Into which ships stowaway
Silent as spoons.
Hands raw with distress
I mount the embankment,
A barb-wire smile
Bubbling up from the blue.
I am prepared to die,
To have my sinews
Picked clean and ingested.
It was as if a fracture had opened beneath the floorboards, cutting through the very fabric of space and time, of sentience and senescence. Such was the mephitic stench, a scent like dying, like the slow simmer of rotten meat at the base of a muculent stew. The smell was a static one, not even the breath of Spring could relinquish its constancy. Lamps suspended midair, as if the inimical vapor had solidified forming invisible shelves. The ivory walls bloomed red and then black as if the wounds decayed on acquisition. A single voice assaulted the air as an alarm, rising steadily in intensity. The voice was mine, albeit octaves higher than the one chosen for speech.
I had heard the rumors of infestation, everything from poltergeists to portals. This room in particular seemed to exist between dimensions. Each morning I crossed that threshold and each morning I retreated half-way not from the horror of it but from the anger that rose up within me. I clenched my fists till the blood formed, as sickles in the indentures fashioned by my nails. My mouth tasted of marrow and offal as if I’d bitten into the flesh of the walls. My breath came in visible gasps, like the bestial steam of frenzied cattle. I felt violent beyond my means.
I detested that room but my visits became more frequent. I’d wake in the night finding myself mid-stroll soaked in sweat and smelling of vomit. Eventually the smell began to permeate my clothes and skin. People kept their distance, first strangers than friends. I began to hate (those I loved especially). I sent them gifts from my hunting trips but only the leavings. I sent them letters, cruel and cryptic poems that I knew would both offend and frighten. I came to enjoy their tears and dismay, to relish them as I had once relished their smiles and greetings. I had so little reason to hate them that I invented their crimes until their fear and discomfort furnished me with the catalyst of neglect.
I moved my bed and desk into the room that I could stay there while I slept and worked. The room that I had only entered in order to discover the source of its sickness, but within which I could never remain long enough to rectify, became my sanctuary. And I in turn became the room.
Thomas Bak
A serpent’s son scalding a rose-fractured heart
You endow the night with nefarious lust
I trespass. a virgin and emerge wholly female
*
If my tears do not dissuade you
Then of what use is salt?
My prayers hold no favor for still you come
Drinking modesty from clenched thighs
*
We rise inside the same false sun
None shall believe in us, none shall stylize
The repercussion for no scripture above or below
Would ever betray what we together have done
Every scar
I’ve ever worn
And in secrecy
Been made to endure,
Is yours darling to profess
*
It is your heart
Covetous and calescent
That has branded me
That has fashioned
Of my fine roots
A marionette
*
The strings
By which I hang
Are both
Noose and anchor
I remember not
The former tenant
Only this waning
Parasitical soul
That is not me
But who dresses
In my flesh
Nevertheless
*
I know
That beneath
The surface lie
The bodies
Of countless girls
Nameless I trace
The cracked symmetry
Of each neglected numeral
Their pine box smiles
Betraying a history
Not confirmed
But soon borne
=
This is fictional I have to stop watching such depressing programs
Revised poem
I fell from the heights of ill-repute
To the obscurity of dusk
Where poverty found
Even my infamy lacking
For she stripped me cleanly of everything
My money, my inspiration, my pride
All found themselves upon her alter
Sacrificed unwittingly
For a few scraps of comfort
I found myself inconsolable
In my crimes
Drinking away the hours
In idleness
=
I spoke
Of the days of my greatness
As all men do
With an air of narcissism
That savors the memory
Of only key aspirations
Though I felt plainly my faults
I bore them poorly
Because nothing hurts worse
Than being called a god
And finding yourself to be no more
Than a pitiful excuse for a man
Who cannot inspire love
Or create anything of novelty
=
Once I had a voice
That stung with cynicism
A voice that threw open the doors
Of all that was dark and…
View original post 315 more words
Apostate
Your words are unpalatable
Formidable, they reduce me
My watery blood still tastes of
Sin, of metal bars withdrawing
Decadence. I am neither free of nor
Impervious to the sting of your
Liturgical guilt. The mere acquisition
Of this human shell makes me a thief,
An apostate composed of calcified
Rinds and entropic sweetness, I am
Inscrutable, I am wicked, I am man
Casanova’s Revenge
My harem lies beyond this fence.
The hexagonal walls of a basal
Captivity separate me from those
Hens which are mine alone to
Misuse. I know the grass to be
Sweeter on the other side, for
There lies the culmination of my
Libidinous expectations of my
Impending conquests. Do you
Not see their eyes upon me?
Their insatiable desire as they
Thrash their heads upon the
Ground in gluttonous frenzy
=
I do not envy the farmer, that
Ice-handed murderess whom
He calls wife or lord, the way
He demures to her wishes, to
Her puritanical affectations I
Pity him that shrill triumphant
Voice of hers as she goes about
The farm snipping, emasculating
Imagine what he endures behind
Closed doors, I shudder to think
=
She would deny me of my precious
Juliettes of my blue-laced beauties
Of the very execution of those
Biological imperatives to which males
Are by their very nature subservient
I will make her suffer, her blood will
Curdle at the articulation of my wrath
I will cock-a-doodle-do through the
Kindling of stars with teeth-shattering
Amplitude, so long as my bed remains
Empty hers shall remain sleepless!
=
(The second one I was being silly, I have an inner ear problem which is making me extremely dizzy, disoriented and causing me to lean and walk constantly to the right so if I seem off, I am off, to the right haha)
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
There is something morbid
About the bright orange jumpers
Worn by inmates
Like fluorescent blood
Smeared over the remains
Of a crime scene
Sins annulled
By concealment
If only color could
Illuminate
The darkness within
*
When I was a child
I went to the first
Of many funerals
My uncle came wearing
His shocking veneer
Like a Chinese paper lantern
He came with armed guards
And shades of violence
Reflected in heavy chains
*
If only he’d had a mask
So I wouldn’t have seen
His bladed grin
Or his face laid out
In merciless lines
He’d raped a 16 year old girl
Unmoved
By the act of defilement
He stood proud
*
My father pushed me
In his direction
I tripped forward
In compulsory greeting
The officers’ hands
On the hilts
Of concealed weapons
As he wrapped
The chains around
My reticent frame
*
I became cadaverous in his arms
Ponderous and mute
Not even a whispered breath
I don’t remember his words
For the pulse
Of my rampant heart
Only the choked sobs of relief
When, under threat,
He released
*
true story
mindlovemisery 