You know my name
But, you will never know
what it means
For I can not be defined
by words alone
Only by the way
I devour you soul
Behold your own demise...
Behold the falling sky!
Behold my name...
Defined in blood
The blood of the innocent
I am
I AM!
Darkest lord of black darkness silent death whisper of destruction and pwnage
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
"Mr. Sharpsteen, there is a blind man here to see you."
And everyone sees him but me. The spring semester had begun, and my nephew had just been born. As I walk the hospital corridor, I recall a conversation I had with my grandfather a week ago. “This above all: to thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not be false to any man. Farewell; my blessing season this in thee!” My grandfather finished quoting from his favorite play, smiling as though he had never said it before. As we did daily, my grandfather and I spoke for several hours about school and story ideas I had in mind. It always seemed as though he spent the day before preparing what he would say. He often dispensed his wisdom liberally, speaking with a slight grin.
As I enter the colorful room, I can not see that slight grin as his glossy eyes turn to me, nor can I see his chest heave. Somehow, I also fail to notice the needle injecting its morphine into his withered veins to end his discomfort. As he slips into a barely conscious state, his presence becomes even more apparent than ever.
And I feel it. I feel as if I can not lift my arms to feed myself. I can not speak more than three words at a time. All I can do is deliver a lethargic smile as they stand around. A familiar voice whispers in my ear, “Open your eyes, everyone is here.” As I lift my eyelids and focus, I begin to make out the image of a baby. “This is your great grand-son.” As sedated as I am, I am still awake enough to appreciate the fact that there are four generations in the room. The baby lets out a slight whimper. His voice makes me cry and I imagine him growing up, going to college and perhaps becoming an engineer. I want to stay awake, but I can’t. It’s not that I’m not trying. The mind and body are just two separate things now, you see? The mind just waits, while the body slowly gives up.
And everyone sees him but me. As a subtle beep erupts into a terrifying siren, a nurse removes his oxygen mask and I do not see his smile: the hallmark of his wisdom; an identity, more so than his name.
I feel the imprint of the mask pressed into his limp face. My mouth slowly falls open, in an attempt at an un-finished goodbye. I stand in the room as it fills with people barely there and a man who is not. Amid the heartache I become the patient, and I feel emotions to the degree that I am confused as to whether or not I am also another.
Monday, June 8, 2009
A Tell Tale Purity
This is a plot theft story, which means that I stole the plot of another story. This is my take on Edgar Allen Poe's, The Tell Tale Heart.
I remember the first time I saw her. She had just entered the library and turned in my direction for a moment when her brown eyes caught me with this piercing glare. It was unusual really. Born and raised here in South Florida, I had acquired a taste for the tan skin and dark hair of Latin women, but a redhead? It wasn't just her red hair. It wasn't just her lily white skin. To be honest, I don't know what it was. But I was certainly drawn to her. I waited a few minutes and then decided I should meet her. I found her sitting on the floor between the aisles with some books scattered around her. When I sat down next to her she looked at me with a slight smile and asked if she could help me. I explained that I thought she was pretty and since she was also apparently literate, I could not pass up the chance to meet someone who is both beautiful and potentially intelligent.
“Oh I’m not literate at all. When I write, it’s all actually gibberish. It’s only by coincidence that it ever makes sense.” she joked.
We met up a week later for dinner and conversation. We exchanged musical tastes, philosophical ideals and the origins of her faith. I found her faith in God to be quite beautiful. I am not at all religious, but I find the ability to just “know” that something such as God exists to be very child-like and innocent. My favorite part of her personality was the way she listened to music. Her hands would dance and she closed her eyes for Vivaldi. She listened to Beethoven like it was rock and she would get rough and passionate whenever she heard ‘O Fortuna’. She was also a musician. Her favorite song to play was Bach’s first Cello Suite. She often played the cello with her eyes closed and moved her head with the music. Sometimes I would wrap my arms around her and imagine that I was playing, or that we were playing together.
We had been dating for two years when I decided to propose. She answered with a simple kiss. It was actually our first kiss. You see, she came from a very strict Christian family. She was raised not to kiss a man until she was engaged to him, and obviously not to sleep with him until the actual wedding night. I have always had an exceptional appetite for women, so the abstinent relationship was very hard for me. I had never wanted any woman more than I wanted her. Nonetheless, I was very happy when she accepted my proposal. I had been so patient for the preceding two years, and now it was all coming together. Later that same night, around midnight, I went to her father’s house. I hid in the bushes while dressing. I wore three layers. The first layer was just my street clothes. The second layer was made from black trash bags. I covered myself from head to toe with airtight seals to make sure that there was no potential of leaving DNA behind. I used a simple breathing tube which went out the back of the suit for air. The third layer was sneakers, heavy sweat pants and a hoodie to minimize the chances of breaking the bags if there were a struggle.
You should have seen how patiently I crept open the door to his room. I wanted to savor this night. I turned the stereo on high volume playing Bach Cello Suite No 1. As he arose and asked who I was, I quickly spun myself around and slashed his throat. I almost decapitated him. His body continued to stand for a second while his head fell back, hanging from a small portion of flesh. Blood shot up like a fountain and covered the bed and I. I caught his body when it fell and cradled his head. I sat stroking his scalp and apologized for making his death so vulgar. I hope he heard me. A decapitated head can stay conscious for up to 12 seconds. I stayed in the room until the sheets were completely red. Admiring the shapes from the blood splatter on the roof and walls, I felt like an artist. I saw it as an expression of what it means to be human, to be mortal. I also felt as if I were one with the room, the blood and the body. When I left I wrapped the outer layer of clothes in the trash bags and burned the whole thing, disposing the ashes off the side of a road in the Everglades.
The next day, my wife-to-be arrived at her father’s house to tell him that she was engaged. Just like I wanted her to, she found the body. That is why his death had to be so bloody. I wanted her to know right away that he was murdered. It is also much more traumatizing to see the almost-decapitated head of your father than it is to just see his lifeless body still intact. She called me, hysterical and crying. I rushed over to comfort her and then gave her a ride to the police station so that she could be interviewed. When she was done telling the police all that she knew, I took her to my place to get cleaned up. She spent the entire day in my arms, never speaking a word; just crying. Her tears burned words in my smile; words that I could never speak. Looking in her eyes, I could almost feel the pain. For a moment I felt close to her.
At exactly 24 hours after the death of her father, I spoke to her. I told her to whisper softly. But her whispers sounded like screams. Blood-curdling screams. I told her that I loved her. I told her that I loved her dad. And I told her how I did it. Her face changed from despair to absolute horror. Still, she did not believe me. So I explained how the body was laid out, how his head was almost decapitated. When I came to her father’s house to pick her up, I did not see the body. She then knew that I was the killer. Her face held… Such terror, such disgust. In that moment, I became completely human. It was only a temporary humanity, but so fulfilling. She called me insane. I still do not understand why she would say that. I think that when people call another insane, they should define insanity in such a way that they themselves possess no element of it. She possessed love. Is love not irrational and therefore an element of insanity? She began to scream, but I covered her mouth and placed my hand on her throat. As she struggled, I asked her to forgive me and whispered her favorite prayer in her ear. “…And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us…” At that moment, she stopped struggling. Her eyes stared straight up and I saw a tear run down her cheek.
I took her body to my garage where I cut her into pieces and then filleted the flesh from her bones. I placed her heart inside her cello. The meat was separated into two coolers and loaded into the back of my truck. I ground the bones into a fine powder and burned it into ash. I then took my airboat to the everglades where I scattered the meat and ash among an area largely populated by alligators. A few days later two police officers showed up at my door. I invited them in for coffee. They declined the coffee but insisted on having a seat in the living room. A missing persons report had been filed and they were here to question me. I expressed a genuine concern stating that I gave her a ride home the day after her father’s murder and hadn’t heard from her since. They seemed satisfied and were on their way out when one of them saw the cello and mentioned that he was a cellist himself. “Yes, it is her cello actually. A beautiful instrument. Would you like to hear it?” I asked.
The officer nodded and I began to play when a foreign sound began to emanate from the instrument. I tried to ignore it but the sound kept getting louder and louder so I stopped playing. The officer asked if he could play and I regrettably obliged. He sat down, bow in hand and asked if I had ever heard a metal song played on a cello and began to play. I don’t remember the name of the band who wrote it, but I remember the song. It was a haunting melody called ‘The Unforgiven’. Again, the sound penetrated my ears with its muffled attack. I began feeling dizzy and images of her death would render themselves before me. I couldn’t escape it. This was new to me and hard to define. Nervous and sweating, I couldn’t take it anymore. In a berserker state of mind I picked up the cello while he played and smashed it on the coffee table.
I remember the first time I saw her. She had just entered the library and turned in my direction for a moment when her brown eyes caught me with this piercing glare. It was unusual really. Born and raised here in South Florida, I had acquired a taste for the tan skin and dark hair of Latin women, but a redhead? It wasn't just her red hair. It wasn't just her lily white skin. To be honest, I don't know what it was. But I was certainly drawn to her. I waited a few minutes and then decided I should meet her. I found her sitting on the floor between the aisles with some books scattered around her. When I sat down next to her she looked at me with a slight smile and asked if she could help me. I explained that I thought she was pretty and since she was also apparently literate, I could not pass up the chance to meet someone who is both beautiful and potentially intelligent.
“Oh I’m not literate at all. When I write, it’s all actually gibberish. It’s only by coincidence that it ever makes sense.” she joked.
We met up a week later for dinner and conversation. We exchanged musical tastes, philosophical ideals and the origins of her faith. I found her faith in God to be quite beautiful. I am not at all religious, but I find the ability to just “know” that something such as God exists to be very child-like and innocent. My favorite part of her personality was the way she listened to music. Her hands would dance and she closed her eyes for Vivaldi. She listened to Beethoven like it was rock and she would get rough and passionate whenever she heard ‘O Fortuna’. She was also a musician. Her favorite song to play was Bach’s first Cello Suite. She often played the cello with her eyes closed and moved her head with the music. Sometimes I would wrap my arms around her and imagine that I was playing, or that we were playing together.
We had been dating for two years when I decided to propose. She answered with a simple kiss. It was actually our first kiss. You see, she came from a very strict Christian family. She was raised not to kiss a man until she was engaged to him, and obviously not to sleep with him until the actual wedding night. I have always had an exceptional appetite for women, so the abstinent relationship was very hard for me. I had never wanted any woman more than I wanted her. Nonetheless, I was very happy when she accepted my proposal. I had been so patient for the preceding two years, and now it was all coming together. Later that same night, around midnight, I went to her father’s house. I hid in the bushes while dressing. I wore three layers. The first layer was just my street clothes. The second layer was made from black trash bags. I covered myself from head to toe with airtight seals to make sure that there was no potential of leaving DNA behind. I used a simple breathing tube which went out the back of the suit for air. The third layer was sneakers, heavy sweat pants and a hoodie to minimize the chances of breaking the bags if there were a struggle.
You should have seen how patiently I crept open the door to his room. I wanted to savor this night. I turned the stereo on high volume playing Bach Cello Suite No 1. As he arose and asked who I was, I quickly spun myself around and slashed his throat. I almost decapitated him. His body continued to stand for a second while his head fell back, hanging from a small portion of flesh. Blood shot up like a fountain and covered the bed and I. I caught his body when it fell and cradled his head. I sat stroking his scalp and apologized for making his death so vulgar. I hope he heard me. A decapitated head can stay conscious for up to 12 seconds. I stayed in the room until the sheets were completely red. Admiring the shapes from the blood splatter on the roof and walls, I felt like an artist. I saw it as an expression of what it means to be human, to be mortal. I also felt as if I were one with the room, the blood and the body. When I left I wrapped the outer layer of clothes in the trash bags and burned the whole thing, disposing the ashes off the side of a road in the Everglades.
The next day, my wife-to-be arrived at her father’s house to tell him that she was engaged. Just like I wanted her to, she found the body. That is why his death had to be so bloody. I wanted her to know right away that he was murdered. It is also much more traumatizing to see the almost-decapitated head of your father than it is to just see his lifeless body still intact. She called me, hysterical and crying. I rushed over to comfort her and then gave her a ride to the police station so that she could be interviewed. When she was done telling the police all that she knew, I took her to my place to get cleaned up. She spent the entire day in my arms, never speaking a word; just crying. Her tears burned words in my smile; words that I could never speak. Looking in her eyes, I could almost feel the pain. For a moment I felt close to her.
At exactly 24 hours after the death of her father, I spoke to her. I told her to whisper softly. But her whispers sounded like screams. Blood-curdling screams. I told her that I loved her. I told her that I loved her dad. And I told her how I did it. Her face changed from despair to absolute horror. Still, she did not believe me. So I explained how the body was laid out, how his head was almost decapitated. When I came to her father’s house to pick her up, I did not see the body. She then knew that I was the killer. Her face held… Such terror, such disgust. In that moment, I became completely human. It was only a temporary humanity, but so fulfilling. She called me insane. I still do not understand why she would say that. I think that when people call another insane, they should define insanity in such a way that they themselves possess no element of it. She possessed love. Is love not irrational and therefore an element of insanity? She began to scream, but I covered her mouth and placed my hand on her throat. As she struggled, I asked her to forgive me and whispered her favorite prayer in her ear. “…And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us…” At that moment, she stopped struggling. Her eyes stared straight up and I saw a tear run down her cheek.
I took her body to my garage where I cut her into pieces and then filleted the flesh from her bones. I placed her heart inside her cello. The meat was separated into two coolers and loaded into the back of my truck. I ground the bones into a fine powder and burned it into ash. I then took my airboat to the everglades where I scattered the meat and ash among an area largely populated by alligators. A few days later two police officers showed up at my door. I invited them in for coffee. They declined the coffee but insisted on having a seat in the living room. A missing persons report had been filed and they were here to question me. I expressed a genuine concern stating that I gave her a ride home the day after her father’s murder and hadn’t heard from her since. They seemed satisfied and were on their way out when one of them saw the cello and mentioned that he was a cellist himself. “Yes, it is her cello actually. A beautiful instrument. Would you like to hear it?” I asked.
The officer nodded and I began to play when a foreign sound began to emanate from the instrument. I tried to ignore it but the sound kept getting louder and louder so I stopped playing. The officer asked if he could play and I regrettably obliged. He sat down, bow in hand and asked if I had ever heard a metal song played on a cello and began to play. I don’t remember the name of the band who wrote it, but I remember the song. It was a haunting melody called ‘The Unforgiven’. Again, the sound penetrated my ears with its muffled attack. I began feeling dizzy and images of her death would render themselves before me. I couldn’t escape it. This was new to me and hard to define. Nervous and sweating, I couldn’t take it anymore. In a berserker state of mind I picked up the cello while he played and smashed it on the coffee table.
Dream Song
These are two poems in a series. I am the narrator in Lucid. The narrator for Kate and I is a ten year old boy.
Lucid
I want to go to sleep,
Lucid
I want to go to sleep,
but ink on paper has more in
common with desire than closed eyes.
Some curious flash of light conspires
with the darkness to refuse my dreams.
A radio begins to buzz with some rhythmic nightmare.
The clock’s hands twist in wicked visions;
wherein lies a creature with eyes like two horizons.
Moving in strobes, she speaks in sirens.
Her shattered motion is a half whispered lullaby.
Speaking to me in a language that is ours.
Speaking to me in a language that is ours.
Our bodies are strewn in perfect tense,
as we are, an assembly of split seconds.
Kate and Ias we are, an assembly of split seconds.
I want to go to sleep
But I can not close my eyes
I hold them open
Just to save her
Because tonight
I don't want to see Kate die
Kate and I
We don't play Kentucky
We lay in our room
Watch the rats scurry in the walls
We lay in the field
Watch the birth and death of distant stars
We lay within each other
Watch the blood course through our veins
But I don't want to dream tonight.
Because in the end, she always dies.
Bad haiku! Bad!
I don't want sex, bitch.
Your vagina is floppy.
You smell like old spam.
I don't believe you.
That baby is not mine, bitch.
I always pulled out.
Shut the fuck up, cunt.
This haiku is offensive?
I will rape your soul.
Don't interrupt me.
I am eating your children.
Billy needs more salt.
You know I love you.
Do not look at me like that.
I will still rape you.
I fucking told you
Little Billy needs more salt.
Hurry up or die.
Your vagina is floppy.
You smell like old spam.
I don't believe you.
That baby is not mine, bitch.
I always pulled out.
Shut the fuck up, cunt.
This haiku is offensive?
I will rape your soul.
Don't interrupt me.
I am eating your children.
Billy needs more salt.
You know I love you.
Do not look at me like that.
I will still rape you.
I fucking told you
Little Billy needs more salt.
Hurry up or die.
Just Wait
In just a moment she will walk through that door. I can imagine her stride and the path she will take. Several possible ensembles exist. Still, I am willing to bet that she will wear a pair of tight fit jeans and a shirt with the cleavage filled in. She will pause at the entry way and scan the room. Upon finding me she will smile, move her hair and walk toward me. Scratch that, she will probably have her hair tied up.
I dip my thumb in the chilled water- run it over the rim of the glass- but no sound; just that irritating mandolin music. God damned hippies… for all their handcrafted organic bullshit, they sure can choose some lame glasses to put my water in. These things aren’t worth the condensation that I’m drawing these little swirls’ in. I check the door. I check my phone. She still isn’t here.
I dip my thumb in the chilled water- run it over the rim of the glass- but no sound; just that irritating mandolin music. God damned hippies… for all their handcrafted organic bullshit, they sure can choose some lame glasses to put my water in. These things aren’t worth the condensation that I’m drawing these little swirls’ in. I check the door. I check my phone. She still isn’t here.
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