Poppies...

Fields of red.
Memories of unrelenting dread.

Poppies...

Pillows of consequence, of loss
of love.
A memoir to our mistakes.
And fury.

Poppies...

Fields I tread.
Resting place of the dead.
Blood of a thousand stain their leaves,
little embodiments of death -
little life thieves.

Live off the deceased,
beautiful scavengers -
some drink their juices, liquid energy.
Liquid Poison.

Poppies,
pure poison in its rawest form,
***** field of heaven
conflict field of the past,
present
and future.

Stick it in a needle,
give it a shot -
but remember, these plants
grow on bodies that still rot.

I travelled straight west
to the epicentre of the southern wastelands
and 'twas with mind-numbing disbelief that
I found an Oak table propped upon the sands

and it was not alone either
for three beings sat it, seemingly nonplussed -
one was a skinny old man
wearing a linen suit faded and powdered with dust

his collar frayed around the edges
a moth-eaten hat sat upon his head,
he had a daisy poking from his breast pocket
so very much preserved, so very much dead,

to his left sat a one-eyed Hare
the sole eye ecstatic and wiggling -
he swore and blasphemed each time the man spoke
from a mouth toothless and dribbling,

sat to the right of the man
was absolutely (absolutely!) nothing,
however I observed with mild humour
that both man and Hare were convinced it must be something

for the man was profusely adamant
scorning the Something for dissing the Hare's hair,
although the Hare was too busy rolling around its one eye
to even notice the man, or simply give a fu- care

"Hey hey talk to I! Hath thou seen my missing eye?!"
Hare asked from a voice shrieky and shattered
saliva running in rivets
upon the table it slopped and slavered -

then suddenly the man started singing encore
his voice cringe-worthy, out of tune,
sounding like a cat back-broke and on steroids
rocking and waving like a spastic-loon;

"If Father Time has no end,
does he even have a beginning -
oh, if there's pain is there gain,
which one of us is it that's winning?"

alas, that's when my attention was brought to the mounds
of surgical needles cluttered on the ground,
feeling sickly aura lick the back of my throat
I started backing away without a sound

["Hey hey talk to I -"]

["If there's pain is there gain -"]

["Hath thou seen my missing Missing MISSING EYE?!!"]

#FLASH!#

the dystopian landscape around me melted
into a field of bloated poppies -

serene, scarlet and blinding 'neath the sun,
feasting upon our charred bodies.

AJ

He sneaks in the night,
and grinds upon the gristle of your bones -
in a cloak woven from the finest skin,
from the chimney he descends and creeps through your homes.

For old Saint Nick
is the propaganda before the fear,
his legend created to cover
the sick evil that manifests itself into cheer.

What's that thumping on your roof?
Trust me, it ain't no reindeer or adorable little elf -
before you can scream the world's black before you;
just another stolen skull upon his shelf.

For Krampus is one nasty wicked little devil -
so lock your windows, barricade the doors;
with a magic key he enters
his shadow bleeding blood into the snow-dusted floors...

lice jittering in the fur beneath his mangey pits,
and eldritch horns jutting from his head
he's a carnivore of the festive spirit;
his hunger and blood-thirst never truly fed.

And upon the Eve of this coming Christmas
he's got an exciting new trick -

for once he's gonna spare all the naughty children,

and instead devour our beloved old Saint Nick...

From within a blackened heart
spawns madnesses twisted Invictus,
a severed head sat atop a plinth, filled
with decaying thoughts of cyanide and citrus,

completely crazy, inverted, perverted,
infected with an insanity that dances from the eyes -
pouting lips tempestuous and alluring
from the tip of a tongue he sews insidious lies,

roosting upon the bleeding emotions of others
a vile disassociation sanity can't pertain,
charred lips from suckling the ******* of Hell
the back-broke miracle nature refuses to explain,

exhaling noxious fumes, a pyro-manic incense,
one soul re-arranged, deranged and blisteringly intense;

so much so, it disgusts me beyond words -

so kick the rotten apple,

watch the maggots writhe within thou sour curds.

By the time he got out of the front door the morning sun had fully risen. Surrounding it lay a sea of blue sky, light coloured and peppered here and there with trails of white left from distant airplanes. The birds sang in the trees, all in harmony, and a light breeze whispered, left over from the night before.

As he jumped into his car, a dusty red little Citroën, he realised that in his rushed efforts to get ready he'd put his shoes on the wrong feet. A little while ago he'd seen a documentary based on people with abnormal deformities, and there had been an American 30-something year old with two right feet. Right now, looking at his shoes, he looked a little like him; all he needed now was a group of cameras and a well-spoken, polished presenter pretending to care but really just thinking about the paycheck at the end of night. He figured all TV presenters were pretentious, fixated on climbing up the great showbiz ladder rather than helping those in need.

He grabbed them off, scuffed black business shoes to match his tattered jeans and faded blue shirt, and swapped them over. Once both shoes were on correct, he lit up a smoke and set off down the road.

Ahead of him was Lancaster Road, a sprawling stretch of asphalt tarmac that served as the primary mode of navigation through Manchester. If you were to turn left it would take you all the way into the main city, and also a stodge of backed-up traffic, and, if you chose right, to the quiet town of Penitence which was where his works was based. Going right would technically be quicker, as the road to the left led to a series of zig zag-like curves where the road layout had been forced to compensate for the huge cliff several miles to the north. That being said, Will almost always chose left, as the dual carriageway that branched off Lancaster Road was always jammed up with traffic, comprising mainly of angry motorists and haulage lorries driving in from the east. Choosing right would easily add three quarters of an hour onto his journey, and quite frankly he'd rather stare at a wall than be surrounded by blaspheming mouths and ugly red faces.

This time however he went right, joining the steady stream of cars that were already beginning to slow down. There was no apparent reason for this, for over 4 years he must have consistently turned left every morning, but today his mind had thrown a curveball - albeit a stupid one. Already running late, it had chosen to go on the longest route possible.

Good work there mate, brilliant.


50mph - 45mph - 40mph

The speedometer slowly crept down, the shudder of the lower gears gradually increasing. Clouds had now gathered in the sky, not quite bloated nor dark enough to threaten rain but it was enough to dull the sunshine into a pale, white, glow. He was now going slow enough to see the bits of clutter and ******* - discarded newspapers, cans, broken bottles - littering the pavement. Then it suddenly gave way to a rudimentary dirt road and steel crash barriers as he approached the dual carriageway.

35mph - 30mph - 25mph

Sighing, he fumbled for the radio and flicked it on, momentarily averting his gaze from the road to the numbered buttons, tuning for a station.

--- Ssssshhhh ---

Nothing but static.

**** radio! If only I could -

When he glanced up his heart nearly stopped - directly ahead of him, on the highway, stood a man. He stood with his back toward Wills car, shoulders slumped, stock still.

What-?!

Will froze as the car lurched on, the distance between the bonnet and the mans body rapidly closing. No thought came into his brain, his legs distant from his body as if untethered.

Nothing but numbness.

The future series of events played like a stop motion video inside his mind; finding the brakes and jamming them down - only too little, too late. The old man would first lean as the bumper pressed into his lower back, then snap sickeningly in half, the momentum of the car causing his body to jackhammer up the bonnet and roll over the back of the car. There he would fall once again onto the road, spine splintered and blood soaking through his shirt into a puddle on the tarmac.

STOP! Will stop the **** car!!!

He smashed the brakes down and closed his eyes.

Although the first thing taught in driving lessons is to never close your eyes, particularly during an emergency stop, the overwhelming panic threw his nerves into a spasm, and in that split second everything he was told - brake hard, clutch down, don't let the car stall - was forgotten in an instant. He knew what he should do, knew that if the wheels were even slightly turned he could cause the car to skid, or worse, flip.

Brake down, clutch down, engine off, a mantra his instructor had once sang on one of his first lessons. Will had a feeling that if Ruth Carotene could see him, see this, now she'd have some sort of coronary, or maybe an aneurysm. She'd always been set in her ways of teaching, starting each lesson going through her seemingly endless list of checkpoints, and this right here smashed every single rule she'd taught him.
Break, clutch, engine off -
Eyes, open your eyes
He did, the windscreen before him doubling for a second. His heart was pounding away, nervous sweat lining his forehead and arms. The car had stopped, and in his dumb paralysis he hadn't the faintest idea how much it had skid. Safe to say it hadn't flipped over though, unless he was upside down and didn't realise it.
Nope, the sky is still above me, he observed, and it was then he also saw the fat bald-headed guy rapping his hands against the drivers side window. The world washed back slowly, the sun white and the air filled wit beeps and the Ssssshhhhhh static of the radio. He lowered the window, allowing the honking horns to fully enter and consume the inside of the car.
"What the hell are you playing at? I nearly ran into the back of you!" the bald guy barked at him, his pudgy face both pale and angry. Will glanced in the rear view mirror and saw about a dozen or so more cars behind him, scowling faces and gesturing hands sending out messages far from morning greetings or amicable hello's.
"Sorry... There was someone in the road," he croaked, pointing to the blank space in front. Empty, nothing there.
Can't be, he was right there! Stood right there! For a second he thought the figure had been an apparition, or maybe hadn't been there all along, merely a figment of his tired mind. That's when his gaze shifted to the opposite side of the road and the mis-shapen entity clambering over the crash barrier. Whoever it was, they had crossed the road while Will had been in his daze, and it was now he could fully see it in it's ghastly glory.
"I must be ****** blind 'cause to me there ain't nobody there -"
Grotesque was the only word he could think of to describe it. Under the pallid glow of the sun its skin glistened sick-white, partially covered by a tattered grey t-shirt that billowed in the wind like torn flags. It wore shorts, also grey, it's long stick-like legs poking out like splintered tooth picks. And it's face, oh God that face. He only caught a vague view as it glanced over its shoulder, but what he saw reminded him of the ghouls that would creep out of the crypts, the nightmarish beings that stalked late night TV shows such as the Twilight Zone seeking fresh flesh to feast on. But it was human alright - it's normal, albeit disintegrating, clothing the only sign of its former non-twisted self.
Oh God -
"Hey, are you even listening? There ain't no one there *******!"
Will faced the guy, now stood so close his flabby face nearly poked through the window, and then back to the crash barrier. The fiend was gone, much to his relief.
"Sorry it must have been a bird or something, I'm really really sorry mate I thought it was a man, or a kid."
"Yeah yeah whatever, just get going and get out of my way." With that he stormed off, only stopping briefly to exchange disapproving looks with the car behind him. He drove a black sports-like car, probably a Vauxhall, and Will briefly wondered how such a small car could carry an overweight ******* like that.
*******, he muttered to himself as he restarted the engine. Turns out he'd let the car stall as well.
Back to school I guess, what would dear old Ruth say?
Setting off was easy, the fat guy overtook him almost instantly, slamming his horn as he went, but looking over to where the misfit had been was not. He wanted to look, to check in case it hadn't really gone away and was instead lurking, contorting it's swollen lips into a grin.
Grinning at him.
"Gooood evening listeners, this is RADIO XFM!"
Halfway down the radio finally clicked on, interrupting his line of thought - quite mercifully, if he was being honest. The sight of that thing not only made him feel uneasy, but he also couldn't shake off the feeling of foreboding as well. Like it was some sort of warning, a sign.
Of what?
[smashing glass smashing]
He didn't know, didn't dare to think, and as he cantered down the carriageway in the steady stream of traffic he sat silently, the radio singing out its tunes like an uninvited guest. It was an oldie that was on, maybe Boston or Bowie, he wasn't sure, but as it played on he sat in silence, the shadows in the car cutting harsh lines into his face.

She's one killer queen
captivated within a nest of fire -
she's so ****, alluring,
her body seductive and bristling with desire.

Smoky eyes, ravish-me red lips,
bringing you to your knees -
lust, will ensnare you,
she seduces with her predatory tease.

Next you're asking her out for a drink,
as she clouds your head with her slick oily thighs -
minute after minute,
you're pulled further into her insidious disguise.

Hunger for flesh controls, drives you on,
purity is only skin deep -
truth concealed within her curves,
accountability on delete.

Oh yeah,

her facade masks a sadistic virus,
slowly curdling her elegance to obscene -

she's one angel that's black and dying,

I guess that's why they call her the Killer Queen.

AJ/SJW

By the time he got out of the front door the morning sun had fully risen. Surrounding it lay a sea of blue sky, light coloured and peppered here and there with trails of white left from distant airplanes. The birds sang in the trees, all in harmony, and a light breeze whispered, left over from the night before.

As he jumped into his car, a dusty red little Citroën, he realised that in his rushed efforts to get ready he'd put his shoes on the wrong feet. A little while ago he'd seen a documentary based on people with abnormal deformities, and there had been an American 30-something year old with two right feet. Right now, looking at his shoes, he looked a little like him; all he needed now was a group of cameras and a well-spoken, polished presenter pretending to care but really just thinking about the paycheck at the end of night. He figured all TV presenters were pretentious, fixated on climbing up the great showbiz ladder rather than helping those in need.

He grabbed them off, scuffed black business shoes to match his tattered jeans and faded blue shirt, and swapped them over. Once both shoes were on correct, he lit up a smoke and set off down the road.

Ahead of him was Lancaster Road, a sprawling stretch of asphalt tarmac that served as the primary mode of navigation through Manchester. If you were to turn left it would take you all the way into the main city, and also a stodge of backed-up traffic, and, if you chose right, to the quiet town of Penitence which was where his works was based. Going right would technically be quicker, as the road to the left led to a series of zig zag-like curves where the road layout had been forced to compensate for the huge cliff several miles to the north. That being said, Will almost always chose left, as the dual carriageway that branched off Lancaster Road was always jammed up with traffic, comprising mainly of angry motorists and haulage lorries driving in from the east. Choosing right would easily add three quarters of an hour onto his journey, and quite frankly he'd rather stare at a wall than be surrounded by blaspheming mouths and ugly red faces.

This time however he went right, joining the steady stream of cars that were already beginning to slow down. There was no apparent reason for this, for over 4 years he must have consistently turned left every morning, but today his mind had thrown a curveball - albeit a stupid one. Already running late, it had chosen to go on the longest route possible.

Good work there mate, brilliant.


50mph - 45mph - 40mph

The speedometer slowly crept down, the shudder of the lower gears gradually increasing. Clouds had now gathered in the sky, not quite bloated nor dark enough to threaten rain but it was enough to dull the sunshine into a pale, white, glow. He was now going slow enough to see the bits of clutter and ******* - discarded newspapers, cans, broken bottles - littering the pavement. Then it suddenly gave way to a rudimentary dirt road and steel crash barriers as he approached the dual carriageway.

35mph - 30mph - 25mph

Sighing, he fumbled for the radio and flicked it on, momentarily averting his gaze from the road to the numbered buttons, tuning for a station.

--- Ssssshhhh ---

Nothing but static.

**** radio! If only I could -

When he glanced up his heart nearly stopped - directly ahead of him, on the highway, stood a man. He stood with his back toward Wills car, shoulders slumped, stock still.

What-?!

Will froze as the car lurched on, the distance between the bonnet and the mans body rapidly closing. No thought came into his brain, his legs distant from his body as if untethered.

Nothing but numbness.

The future series of events played like a stop motion video inside his mind; finding the brakes and jamming them down - only too little, too late. The old man would first lean as the bumper pressed into his lower back, then snap sickeningly in half, the momentum of the car causing his body to jackhammer up the bonnet and roll over the back of the car. There he would fall once again onto the road, spine splintered and blood soaking through his shirt into a puddle on the tarmac.

STOP! Will stop the **** car!!!

He smashed the brakes down and closed his eyes.

Although the first thing taught in driving lessons is to never close your eyes, particularly during an emergency stop, the overwhelming panic threw his nerves into a spasm, and in that split second everything he was told - brake hard, clutch down, don't let the car stall - was forgotten in an instant. He knew what he should do, knew that if the wheels were even slightly turned he could cause the car to skid, or worse, flip.

Brake down, clutch down, engine off, a mantra his instructor had once sang on one of his first lessons. Will had a feeling that if Ruth Carotene could see him, see this, now she'd have some sort of coronary, or maybe an aneurysm. She'd always been set in her ways of teaching, starting each lesson going through her seemingly endless list of checkpoints, and this right here smashed every single rule she'd taught him.
Break, clutch, engine off -
Eyes, open your eyes
He did, the windscreen before him doubling for a second. His heart was pounding away, nervous sweat lining his forehead and arms. The car had stopped, and in his dumb paralysis he hadn't the faintest idea how much it had skid. Safe to say it hadn't flipped over though, unless he was upside down and didn't realise it.
Nope, the sky is still above me, he observed, and it was then he also saw the fat bald-headed guy rapping his hands against the drivers side window. The world washed back slowly, the sun white and the air filled wit beeps and the Ssssshhhhhh static of the radio. He lowered the window, allowing the honking horns to fully enter and consume the inside of the car.
"What the hell are you playing at? I nearly ran into the back of you!" the bald guy barked at him, his pudgy face both pale and angry. Will glanced in the rear view mirror and saw about a dozen or so more cars behind him, scowling faces and gesturing hands sending out messages far from morning greetings or amicable hello's.
"Sorry... There was someone in the road," he croaked, pointing to the blank space in front. Empty, nothing there.
Can't be, he was right there! Stood right there! For a second he thought the figure had been an apparition, or maybe hadn't been there all along, merely a figment of his tired mind. That's when his gaze shifted to the opposite side of the road and the mis-shapen entity clambering over the crash barrier. Whoever it was, they had crossed the road while Will had been in his daze, and it was now he could fully see it in it's ghastly glory.
"I must be ****** blind 'cause to me there ain't nobody there -"
Grotesque was the only word he could think of to describe it. Under the pallid glow of the sun its skin glistened sick-white, partially covered by a tattered grey t-shirt that billowed in the wind like torn flags. It wore shorts, also grey, it's long stick-like legs poking out like splintered tooth picks. And it's face, oh God that face. He only caught a vague view as it glanced over its shoulder, but what he saw reminded him of the ghouls that would creep out of the crypts, the nightmarish beings that stalked late night TV shows such as the Twilight Zone seeking fresh flesh to feast on. But it was human alright - it's normal, albeit disintegrating, clothing the only sign of its former non-twisted self.
Oh God -
"Hey, are you even listening? There ain't no one there *******!"
Will faced the guy, now stood so close his flabby face nearly poked through the window, and then back to the crash barrier. The fiend was gone, much to his relief.
"Sorry it must have been a bird or something, I'm really really sorry mate I thought it was a man, or a kid."
"Yeah yeah whatever, just get going and get out of my way." With that he stormed off, only stopping briefly to exchange disapproving looks with the car behind him. He drove a black sports-like car, probably a Vauxhall, and Will briefly wondered how such a small car could carry an overweight ******* like that.
*******, he muttered to himself as he restarted the engine. Turns out he'd let the car stall as well.
Back to school I guess, what would dear old Ruth say?
Setting off was easy, the fat guy overtook him almost instantly, slamming his horn as he went, but looking over to where the misfit had been was not. He wanted to look, to check in case it hadn't really gone away and was instead lurking, contorting it's swollen lips into a grin.
Grinning at him.
"Gooood evening listeners, this is RADIO XFM!"
Halfway down the radio finally clicked on, interrupting his line of thought - quite mercifully, if he was being honest. The sight of that thing not only made him feel uneasy, but he also couldn't shake off the feeling of foreboding as well. Like it was some sort of warning, a sign.
Of what?
[smashing glass smashing]
He didn't know, didn't dare to think, and as he cantered down the carriageway in the steady stream of traffic he sat silently, the radio singing out its tunes like an uninvited guest. It was an oldie that was on, maybe Boston or Bowie, he wasn't sure, but as it played on he sat in silence, the shadows in the car cutting harsh lines into his face.

Fleeting eyes of despotic marauders
desensitised clones bound to extremist orders
martyrs to a God non-existent, fake
pretending to liberate but instead they take

bone and flesh flying like bits of confetti
killing anything be it two or twenty
spreading their faith with blade and explosive
ideologies sickening, unjust and corrosive

unsung heroes, are we forever in their debt?
Their sordid acts spilling blood, tears and sweat -
tell me Radical, does God really give a sh*t
whether the bullet from your gun misses or hits?

They care for no one but themselves and their kind
stomping upon our future and leaving destruction behind -

watch out my friend, any stranger could be one of them
for its not a matter of 'if' but a matter of when.

Plastic bags with bombs in
distorted lies addled with sin
gunfire, controversy, gay meditation
Deaths first kiss gripping the nation

Europe in disarray, refugees fleeing war
people battle for their identities behind makeshift walls
grey stained weatherfronts, conflict that's never dead
panic reverberating as our streets run red

oh old friend what has the world become
infatuated with power massacre reigns beneath the sun
ignorant to the future our forebearers fought for
we blow each other up as sanity thaws

but amidst the battles, bloodshed and gore
hope still blooms, albeit crippled for
the answer's simple that'll leave all this behind;

*nurture your own faith and I will mine.

A little glimmer off a shooting star,
a wave of glittering gold-dust
sprinkled from a world, afar,

liquid life,
sprouting shrubs and growing trees,
a wave of evolution,
liberating the inanimate,
gifting them with legs and knees,

raging slivers of fire
mercilessly compressed and tamed,
birthing the light and Sun,
a magnetic core in the earth
holding us down, letting stagnant waters run,

the reigning darkness,
purged back deep into the shadows,
concealing the hole to Hell
where temptation whispers
and sin grows,

then us,
children of Adam, and of Eve,
living in virtual utopia,
in a beautiful world that we thieve -

for this world is not just our own,
to taint and manipulate,

but yet we still burrow deep into our selfish minds,

seeking paradisiacal perfection

that we will never find.

I'm a self-centred beauty, an angel of grotesque
in leather and chains I love to dress
my sultry is not just mine but yours to keep
in the land of the whimsical there's no need to breathe, or even sleep

I caress broken bones with a forked tongue
trying to find the right within all the wrong
I'm amazing, my persona blindingly slick
spreading love from a mind worthless and sick

sweet abortion in my eyes
falling in love with everything I ever despised

addicted to the sins I strived to appease
my former self lingers like a disease
the sun dawns and I wonder what I've become
gazing at the cigarette in my hand, it's apparent I'm on the run

from a pain that burns just like the smoke
stale and acrid I cough and choke
but the dizziness distracts from the memories I find
helping leave what happened behind.

Delivery by C-section,
lawyers and court orders
demanding patient discretion.

How could something so natural
turn so wrong?
Thousands of conceived babies
thriving in bodies where they don't belong.

Homosexuality, and legalised Gay marriage -
the good intentions of our governments
opening the gates to a disastrous passage.

Because now our women's numbers
are drastically few,
yet the Human race continues
to breed fresh, renew -

No, you can't change what you love
or what tempts you to sin;
even the best, most straight, of us
can always give in.

But will you still agree
in ten years time,
will you still accept equality when,
our women are hopelessly infertile,
and children are birthed by men?

The first thing he smelt was charred ash. A dour, stale smell that drifted in the air, staining the walls and ceiling of the room like a bad birthmark. If you'd have asked him 3 weeks ago prior to today never would he have considered smoking. That was before the bad thing had happened, and now he was puffing away 20 a day like a run-down steam engine.

Stacks of crumpled cigarette packets and empty beer bottles cluttered the floor, along with discarded business cards that seemed to taunt his name, William Shaw, with a bitter humour whenever he looked at them. He had it all - money, a career, an established identity, and yet never had he felt so lost, so meaningless. It seemed the period before when the black event occurred, when the tone and texture of life had suddenly dimmed like being turned down by a dial, was merely a gold and fragile vail, strung up in front of realities true, decrepit, face. A face that had clawed it's way through the happiness, the blistering rays of the summer sunshine, the mounting financial wealth and job promotions, like a pathetic wall of paper plastered over a back street entry.

The first thing he saw when he awoke this morning was the tan coloured ceiling of his flat. Through the sleep induced blurry vision of eyes that have not fully woke, this looked strangely like a vast desert, the minute crack that lay in the middle stretching before his tired eyes into a huge smiling ravine. It reminded him of the grand canyon, something as a child he'd always wanted to visit. He had spent a lot of his school holidays, and acrylic paint and canvases, drawing pictures of it, inspired by its many twists and curves, imagining it as an entrance to another mystical world below where dinosaurs and other creatures hid from the world above.

To a child creativity is essentially their way of interpreting life, and coming to terms with it, and for William Shaw the thing that got those cogs whirring was nature itself. He'd write stories, draw and paint pictures, and whilst his skill at all these was clumsy, his imagination was striking adept, confusing and wowing his parents who had been expecting a crude stick man drawing but instead were presented with a clunky, Van Gogh-style picturesque scene. Being an artist isn't all about the skill, anyone can perfect brush strokes, but looking at the ordinary and somehow visualising the extraordinary.

He never ended up going to the canyon, nor anywhere else for that matter - his mother was unemployed, utilising her time by taking piano lessons and gardening, and his father was a forklift driver at a logistics company. Barring the one-time trip to a seaside holiday camp, where the apartments had smelt of salt and the bedding was scratchy, Will had never been on holiday as a child.

But that was okay, he told himself, they struggled but never neglected me. Now, lying here as the amber hues of dawn startled trickling through the middle of the curtains, those days all seemed like a distant dream. Breaking down financially, they were exhausted and living in worry, yet he went on all the school trips, always had milk money and a cooked dinner waiting for him when he got home.

I have more than I could ever want, and had then, so why do I feel like this?

He knew why, it was because of the bad thing. It had lodged itself inside him, like a festering tumour. No amount of running or distracting himself would make it any better; it would be like running a race against a car or a train.

Or a speeding bullet -

[Hush! Don't want to think about that]

And it was in that split moment he felt an image rising to the surface, callous and cold - a champagne glass exploding into a shower of shards, and oh the screams all he could hear was their screams rising like a tidal wave, ready to submerge, to drown -

BANG BANG!!

He rose with a jolt and glanced over to the digital clock which blinked 8:49 in the far corner. He was running late again and needed to get a move on if he was to arrive at work on time. He hadn't been late ever, but over this week getting up had been a struggle. Sleep just seemed more of a priority right now.

He grabbed a cigarette and stuck it in his mouth, grimacing as the acrid taste filled his mouth. The first was always the worst; causing slight nausea as the nicotine rushed to your head. However the feeling of airlessness afterwards was amazing, temporarily stunning all the nerves in your brain, giving a confused floating feeling only drugs can better. His best mate John, who'd subsequently introduced him to smoking, often said the best cigarette of the day is the first as the 12 hour sleep hiatus allowed the brain to detoxify itself, thus catalysing the nicotine rush. The fact John also thought the Queen was an alien and that Donald Trump should be president made Will take his advice with a pinch of salt - but, in regards to smoking, he was almost spot on.

Much like himself, John was quite a skinny guy with a shock of scruffy black hair receding even though he was in his late twenties, and his black outlook on life often contradicted his bubbly personality. Will had known him for years since high school, and knew full well his stupid and often sarcastic jokes hid the darker side to him; John had served time in prison for a theft he didn't commit and, although he wouldn't admit it, had lapsed into a drug addiction upon his release. The slight gaunt dips in his cheeks said it all.

Looking at him coping, just, and carrying on filled Will with both admiration and guilt. His best friend was spiralling into a whirlpool right under his nose, and the worse part of all - he couldn't do anything about it. Again the feeling of helplessness, of meaninglessness, was there gnawing away like a bloated sewer rat.

He took another drag and glanced again to the clock. Now it read 8:57, almost grinning at him from the other side of the room.

Better get a shifty on, and with that he stubbed the cigarette out and stumbled toward the bathroom, catching his toe and cursing as he went.

To dance with angels,
first you have to forgive their lies;
over-zealous birds with peripheral faces, and fingers -
about as exciting as the clouds floating in the skies,

covering their ears
as the world below them burns and cries,

over-zealous suffragettes in dresses
I admittedly loathe and despise

pugnacious, self-centred and frozen to the core
laughing hysterically as we worship and spread their lore,

not actually interested in who we are or what we do,
making emotional archetypes out of fools such as me and you

oh yes -

give me one, I'll burn away her clothes
expose her, barren and broken, like she did me,

give me one, I'll douse that halo in tar then **** on it;
purely vengeance from when she shattered my hopes of finally being free -

[sigh]

I think if I ever did get the chance,

I'd rather clip her wings than have a dance.

I plunge my fists deep into the cavity beside your heart
oh then I scream as thou pristine hands are painted red, for
my knowledge's a disposition, my loving's an addiction,
I may be tightly knit but my mind's fraying at the edge,

I felt myself caring, when I thought it no longer could be
my warped obsession with you
gave me something to think about, and queerly set me free -

alas my pastimes remained
a quandary to the twisted and deranged
through the eyes of a calculative Psychopath
I am cursed to forever see,

yes I know what to feel, I know what to say
but don't be fooled, I'm a living masquerade and I care not for you in any way -

oh I'll buy you a coffee, take you to a room and please you there -
but then the twitches start, as I rip the sultry fabric
from your skin, grab handfuls of your velveteen hair,

oh you'll be petrified, you'll freeze
as I finally unveil the insanity that I strive to appease -
in full swing and oblivious to the pain
revelling in the serendipity that is my disease

I'll take you for all you are, and all your worth,
then I'll swiftly **** you
and leave your body bleeding upon the hearth -

strolling casually into the dying sun,

smiling as the day collapses and begins to fold -

a horrific sight enough

to make one's blood run cold.

Silence is the comfort of a conflicts hush
silence is the sound of a dead crows caw
silence ain't abatable, so don't even try
silence is thy lord's voice and his word is law

It's unquestionable, deadly, doesn't care what it kills
a force gradual and steady, from the dark our night it fills
it reeks of loneliness whilst exhuming sweet beauty
modest and loyal, quietly it does its hidden duty

crying through eyes non-existent
it's love invisible, so painfully distant
all alone, comfort gone from that old favourite song,
it's presence tranquil, opening your eyes to where you went wrong

It's neutral, doesn't take sides or excuses
a poignancy so strong, bitter and raw
twisted, life and death somehow entwined
I gazed upon its face and 'twas the most beautiful thing I've ever saw

- - - -

a vision flickering like a fuse in an abandoned house
it's rooms gas filled, primed for explosion -

I sleep and walk amongst the fields of dreams
as silence drips upon life and starts its graceless erosion.

AJ

Snapping and cracking it moves with a clink
jibbering and jabbering beneath the kitchen sink

It backs up the pipes with stagnant decay
reeking and stinking all through the day

Exhaling self-loathing, skin milky and pale
demoniac from twisted tongue to forked tail

Feasting upon rats it swallows them whole
a creature mischievous, bloodthirsty and cold

He devours Halloweeners, then all their sweets
surprising passing strangers by yanking their feet -

"I'll yoink your tootsies, tickle your toes
then what next, uh oh who knows?!"

Last Christmas it blinded the neighbours so they couldn't see
burnt the decorations and shat under their tree

The poor little children waking up that following dawn
to bits of their grandparents spread across the lawn -

Oh I can't sleep, scared of my own home
sick of being stuck with this thing all on my own

People are dead and my moral passions to blame
my inability to **** has caused all this pain

So tonight when it crawls from its slumber, I'll be there with my gun

Oh come my sweet little demon, let's have some fun!

- The Wingle Wangle Song -

"Wingle Wangle Wyrmtail
Is a wicked little fairy -
bloodshot eyes, a grimy disguise
he doeth not scare me

Wingle Wangle Wyrmtail
Bathes in sweat and cold blood -
Sneaks into homes, steals people's bones
Separates the bad from the good

Wingle Wangle Wyrmtail
Roams all night, sleeps all day -
A blighter joyous and macabre
so happy and gay

Wingle Wangle Wyrmtail
you may dance to all the children's cries -

but beware Wingle Wangle
within a barrel lies your demise."

Do I disgust you? Do I repulse you
is my fashion sense really that vile?
Am I too ******, do you feel queasy
when I flash my sabre-tooth smile?

Am I too black? Or maybe too white?
Do my exquisite tastes blind your eyes?
Am I too sultry, is my bare-faced adultery
the very thing that you despise?

I am a king, I am a queen;
my greed grows from below to above -
my alacrity I stretch, to hear people retch,
I am a commander of one and the origin of love,

Yes I'm an exponential craze, I live to amaze
entering blistering gunfights blind -
so disgracefully *****, reaching the ripe age of thirty
and I've already left my thousand sins behind,

So do I still disgust you, still repulse you
with my repugnant smile?

Yes I can be ******, make you feel queasy,
but trust me it'll all be worthwhile.

You're pretty and you know it
using those glassy eyes to tame -
my heart's suckered 'n you know it,
post-*** love purely (surely?) to blame

my mind melts as I grow weak at the knees
your gaze flitting from sultry to predatory -
blood gushes, adrenalin flushes
sweat dripping upon my skin lust-crazy, expectedly

oh I'll burn these nervy butterflies
with this blistering searing fury,
argh, stop this Pretence girl
'cause it's just starting to bore me -

Mind Control to Inner Soul;
"what's your status?"

Inner Soul to Mind Control;
"help! The guts are dead and the heart is fractured!!!"

my body slowly dying, polluted sick
with the caustic affection you instil
"WARNING; cytoplasmic deterioration imminent -
extreme ******-***** overkill!"

for now I know I must give up the chase
the Neurones have received a final transmission (oh please no, it can't be);

"This is .. Inner Soul to Mind Control..
we're all so tired.. so tired .. so .. sleepy - - -"

*CLICK

He'd invested his heart and soul
now he wants back to where the dead wildflowers grow
unawares to how things had gone, good or bad,
uneasiness the worst yet best feeling he's ever had

one thing contradicts the other
wanting to ask but not to smother
if only he could read her beautiful, obscure mind
then he could leave all this pain behind -

oh here I stand over my kingdom of dust
embraced by pity, betrayed by trust
sitting upon the throne of isolation I wallow in drink
slowly but steadily into despair I sink

am I not good enough, am I not fair
how can I be loved when nobody cares?
Can lies ever be lies without truth
I tear at my pathetic skin, spit upon my youth

Answer! Answer! Please just reply
with every passing second my mind does cry
I'm sorry but I'm desperate, I n-need to know
need to escape this black void where the spineless grows

smiling with tears running down my face
feeling insane, a pure messed up disgrace
she's opened up the scars, salted the old wounds
my head's crazy, stagnant, bitterly love exhumed.

My dear friend, don't seek to follow me
for I'm off to the land of broken promises and pity,
within its river of alcohol I wish to drown my sorrows -
upon the black pearl that is Heartbreak Heaven City.

It's semi-mythical river runs through a jungle
of grimy brickwork and choked smog -
a city that revels in its own pollution
so much so, it's many people suffocate beneath it's caustic fog.

And this river, of which I speak,
acts as a candle for the deaf and the blind -
no one would ever dare to live in this city
if it weren't for its promises of prosperity pushing them from behind.

Sometimes there's a brief lapse where the fog lifts,
and people sip the river's waters beneath a moonlit sky,
alas, they only end up gorging and passing out -
intoxicated, they fall into the shadowy depths to drown and die.

Oh, tonight I venture out to its miasmic bank,
sadness and anger so intense, my brain it burns and chars -

upon the twelfth stroke I will descend into it's surface,

and my soul will rise to the everlasting stars...

Gushes of tears run down my featureless face
I failed to find you, now I walk in disgrace,

the destruction was swift and everything but honest
now I stare at the black ugly wound of a broken promise

newspapers cartwheel alongside litter and soiled bank notes
as the northerly wind whispers, between each building it chokes

cathedrals and churches alike collapse
the sun burns blue, sky bloated and raging with thunderclaps

icy waves dancing to a dance-less tune
shadows arising from the corners to defile and exhume

I'm suffocating in my mind, I'm gagging on this dead world
my sanity like my nails - twisted and curled,

I've got cuts and bruises that can't be seen
I try thinking of you but the pain just plagues my dreams

over and over I see the tears in your eyes - stuck like a record, time does freeze,
catching your wail upon the wind I fall to my knees

[her body lies under the rubble of a society dead and gone
I've lost everything, alas I'm not the only one]

gazing at the black sky above, praying to a sun merciless and blue

yes, this world may be falling around me,

but I will still find you.

Aging adolescent, can you hear my cries
feeling the love that for years I've despised,
seeking happiness now finally it's here
ah, but how to mend a shattered heart that's no longer there

she's perfect, she's warm, funny, caring
seeing the good at the darkness she's staring
her eyes sparkle, a beauty that can't be sold
but still inside I hide, rotten, worthless and cold  

I've ascended my throne of isolation and barbed wire
for she took my hand and led me higher
blinded by the world above I gagged, I choked
an exfoliation of pure adoration, the amber hues of hope,

our passion burned deep as the crimson sands of Mars
she grabbed my dying self and raised me to the stars,
but now it kills me whenever I'm not around her
for upon that night I've simply never been happier

the past may be full of stagnant memories and regret
but hopefully I'll forge new ones that for the right reasons I won't forget
gazing upon life and for once I've found I care -
this world is an amazing one, if you have someone with you to share.

[Swearing Alert]


- INTRO; Angel Of Grotesque -


They say they need my help.

Can you believe it, MY help?!

It seems the crimson **** tide has finally turned - now here they are, tails between their sorry legs beg-beg-begging me for help.

Here I am, chained to a steel bed post and clothed in nothing but orange dungarees and socks - I stink of stale sweat, the odour mixing with the backed-up toilet reeking in the corner of the cell. I haven't seen daylight in over 4 years (I think) and I burn away the hours sharpening my nails and quietly ******* -

(often the latter first, don't want a paper cut down there(!))

I'm a man of no mercy. I have no 'better' nature or gratuitous soul - my ego is wholly puerile, at times pugnacious and others vile. I'm a self-centred beauty, a dancing Angel of grotesque. Grinning behind this mask of smiles, in leather and chains I love to dress.

I've long forgotten my name, there's no use for it when you've been stuck alone in a metal box for half your life - the only connection with the outside world is the crude letter box the guards shove food and drink through. Well, I say food but it's debatable whether the floury **** they give me is edible. Then again anything's edible when you're starving - toilet paper, clothing, even your hair and nails.

How did I get here, I hear you ask. Well basically once-upon-a-time in the ****** underbelly of Manchester there was this blindingly vivacious dealer who got in a teensy bit of hot water - resulting in some ******-off yobs dismembering his wife and kids for ***** and giggles. Said handsome dealer (yeah you guessed it, me) was then framed for the ****** of his whole family and locked away in some mental institution for just shy of 35 years.

It's safe to say I went stir-crazy - my brain sicked up all logical sanity and shat it out along with any humanity left in my heart.

What should a man fear when he has nothing left to lose?

I didn't **** my family, but I did the two officers when they took me to the station for questioning. I got tired of the twenty questions game they were playing so I snapped the lock on the inside of the door, slit the first copper's throat with the hook of my handcuffs (had to dislocate one of my wrists to get it free) and choked the other ponce with his own tie.

It took ages for their colleagues to get in, I guess it goes to show that reinforced doors do work.

Shortly after I was carted off to court, restrained in a straight jacket and chains (oh I did love that **** look) where the judge declared me insane and sent me to Greyhound Infirmary For The Mentally Insane.

And the rest is pretty much history from there on - I've slaughtered 4 nurses (one was an accident, I promise!) and a couple of patients, although I don't hear the Infirmary complaining about that.

I can't stand people anymore, when I look into a living face - be it man, woman or child - I see the killers that took away the only people I've ever loved, took away anything I've ever had and locked me away in a world of emptiness and dark.

All I want to do is carve the pain that gnaws at my stomach into their disgusting skin, make them feel how it is to be the freak that's laughed at, locked away, all alone.

That's why I've been incarcerated in this little metal box, left to rot away.

Forgotten.

Until today, when the seemingly dead cell door finally clicks open and I peer up at the first human face I have seen in over 20 years.

And ****, was it an ugly one!

From a room empty it shines
surrounded by impermanence and deceit
for my mind is blank and empty
and without poetry I am incomplete

my writing has grown old
the grotesque horror genre stale -
the ideas I once relied on
now cease to all but fail

I can't think of anything to write
I guess I'll be this way for a while
but like music's greatest chameleon
I'll burn it all and crank up the style

[say goodbye to the Beautiful People
say goodbye to all the horror and gore,
I'm completely shedding this harsh skin
because I want to be that flat writer no more]

yes big changes are happening
oh changes are taking place
anticipation runs through my mind
as total reinvention I've finally come to face

so forgive me if I bore you
forgive my absent presence,

for when I finally return
I'll have something extraordinary to present.

In an inter-galactic ice cream van he arrived
and whizzed me away to countless nether-space lands -
through a universe of broken jigsaw pieces,
where rich diamanté flowers grew in shape-shifting sands.

He took me up the scarlet mountains
of the cotton candy clouds -
we both stood upon the smouldering brink of Hell
and gazed upon the ****** souls and tortuous shrouds.

He shown me light
wherein it seemed only eternal darkness prevailed,
he cracked the Astro-Riddler's code, and what
the aliens contempt language entailed,

with blistering fury
he spat in the pitiless face of greed -
with an almighty FLASH! And a rip-roaring DASH!
He travelled back to when God first planted mankind's seed.

He witnessed the future of the human race
fall horrifically out of place as the cunning serpent tempted Eve;
once he even stood before his coming demise
just to witness what the dead perceive.

O' those star-studded journeys were amazing
infinite wonders and simple love he exhaled,

but the most important thing he ever shown me,

was to never give up no matter how often I failed.

Two o'clock in the morning
and again I can't sleep
my IPod's playin' the internet's callin'
I wanna indulge, I wanna just weep

when you can play out your fantasies
of sordid lust and rough *** through
a video player on your phone, all on your own
or get the real thing with a text

midnight conversations of the perverse kind
desperate ***** hookers whispering in your ear,
Tommy Gunn licks Rosie's behind as she
burns your libido with that naughty sumptuous leer

as a teenager it was fun, apparently normal
but you know it's become a problem when
you're calling lights-out at twelve
but falling asleep at two-thirty AM

once you had to pay, now it's free,
festering in the crevices of the Web
swollen, bloated and growing
from its dank hiding place it begins to ebb

a drug manufactured from
the vilest sins of the mind
prefabricated drool, a vice blackened and cruel
forbidden but not exactly hard to find

---

now here I lie
my flesh blistered and rubbed raw
fat tears run down my face
but not knowin' what it is I'm crying for.

I walk amongst the beautiful people
hide my face within the shadows around,
with lungs of rubber and skin that's latex
they drift about our world without a sound

[so deliciously dark
twisted and vile
they grin from faces ghastly
rotting and puerile]

formerly they were perfect humans
whose selfishness strived for more,
so they re-constructed their bodies and faces
using skin harvested from the dead and poor

[bullet wounds
gunshot holes
maggots and lice thriving
between fleshy folds]

organs replaced with mechanical components
immortality sewn together with surgical stitches,
greed and jealousy bloomed inside our narrow minds
thus we began practicing the work of witches

but the stolen skin rotted upon their ancient bodies
leaving their yellowing, pestilent, bones bare -
to defy death plastic and rubber were used as replacements
but of mortality they were now forever aware

[clumpy fingers, bloodshot eyes
midnight dreams plagued with their shrieking cries]

for upon the pursuit of immortal living
we lost the people we once used to be -

now I flee their hungry gazes and grabbing fingers
living only with empty shadows for bittersweet company.

He took her mascara cast songs
turned them into something beautiful,
taking her pale shaking hands,
down the dark lonely streets he guided her through

hiding tears beneath foundation,
bruises under long sleeve shirts,
she'd downed shot after shot
but still the bitter pain hurt

flaunting powdered flesh beneath stage lights
eyes prying through the thick smoky haze,
weeping as she performed to hundreds
whilst all the perverted sickos gazed

[twerking to a cathartic post-punk sound
stale beer sticking her heels to the ground]

loving her flesh and all that can be seen
fully awake in drunken stupor they dream
drooling at the mouth, pants bulging at the seams
her stomach turns as she silently screams

[Mysterious stranger in the corner
why do you watch with somber eyes]

[ - why do you lurk within the shadows
wrapping yourself up in my pitiful lies?]

and that was when she saw him, at the back of the room,
not grinning like all the other dawgs but crying -
she flashed him a quick smile
her blue contradictory eyes telling him she was lying

4 hours later, he was nowhere to be seen -
throwing up she orders another tequila
stumbles all the way to her dressing room

and there he stood nervously to meet her

"W-what ... do you want?"

he wasn't there for the strippers

or the ***** -

or the *** -

...

he was there for his daughter

His heart breaking as she gripped him tight, "Come on love, let's get you a glass of water."

Treasure is but a wanderer's lust
seeking utopia amongst the cosmic stars
it's year 2025, humanity's golden age of technology,
and a little white spaceship sets off to colonise Mars

nicknamed Nova 2, she boasts twin light-speed thrusters
polarised windscreens and a body of pure ceramite -
with a whoosh and a deafening bang
she smashes the sound barrier and streaks through the night

[#WHAM! BAM! FLASH!#]

at twenty-two hours they pass the moon
avoid a cluster of meteorite and space debris,
venturing deeper and deeper into the abyss of nothingness
their minds awestruck, their weary souls free

faced with a darkness that was un-shiftable, heavy
the danger of this mission increasingly daunting,
the longer they ignored their fears
the more the alien wilderness became haunting

what if they suddenly stopped dead
hit a snag or ran out of power?
They only had limited supplies
and the absent sun grew hotter and hotter by the hour

with the silence incessant
the sound of their own voices was obtrusive, grating,
food disgustingly vile, water going warm,
pressure steadily rising, there were concerns of the pilot fainting

--// "CALLING ELISA STARR TO THE CABIN PLEASE." //--

Elisa Starr was the cabin's dutiful cleaner
she'd clear away the astronauts *******, and occasionally mop up their sick -
for most of the crew had adapted to the lack of gravity
alas a few individuals hadn't been as quick

only 3 months in and the air had already grown stale
smelling of faint excretion and sweat,
aching and tired, she was always wiping down the interior windows
as the condensation steamed them up wet

what was the point in coming to space to slave away
when she could just do it on Earth;
once a valued member of society, a highly respectable mother of three,
surely this gruelling slavery she didn't deserve?

-//-----//-

The glowing red sphere of Mars approaches,
their destination finally (finally!) in range -
Earth was dying and this is a chance for us to start again

but isn't it already clear that we'll never change?

Charlie's at the wheel
Charlie tries to think of a joke //-

[N-Na-Na-Na-N-Now]

Charlie doesn't feel
Charlie wants another sniff of the coke

[N-Na-Na-Na-N-Now]

the skies above are leaden grey
It's dull light shines off his hair,
Charlie doesn't listen to what other people say -
Charlie doesn't really care

[N-Na-Na-Na-N-Now]

smoke pours as the engine sputters
the clutch burns at his feet
from within an ecstasy trance he mutters
slowly to the edge the car begins to creep

[N-Na-Na-Na-N-Now]

oh Charlie's afraid of his arrogance
Charlie thinks he won't bleed -
Charlie's afraid of his adolescence
in his mind Charlie sows the seed -

[N-Na-Na-Na-N-Now]

now he'll tell you how he feels
he feels his insides are rotten dead!
He's sick of this world that steals
they say it's all in his head!!!

[IN HIS]

[IN HIS HEAD]

[N-Na-Na-Na-N-Now]

Charlie's at the wheel
Charlie remembers an old joke

the car tips over the ravine edge
upon his ***** Charlie does gag and choke.

Everything is gone now, just a jack-in-the box that scares
money's already wasted, **** it I never cared,
as usual this life has leadened, sped up my sorry death -
a song written for the heartbreakers; sung upon my last breath

bloated and black, happiness not as it seemed
destroying the gift that for years I've dreamed,
she gave me her heart and I slashed it wide open
for its clear to see I cannot love, it's clear to see I am broken -

who needs love and it's pathetic excuses
a gnawing feeling both corrosive and abusive,
thy gargantuan question looms with a killer in it's eyes -
had I been in a relationship built upon lies?

Flowers of abnormality bloom upon ashes of mistrust
as my tortured soul frantically flounders in the dust -
down
down
down
the downward spiral again I am shoved,
forever asking if I can ever love, and in return be loved.

Herbert O' Doyle was a very simple man. Simplistic in his ways, simplistic in his tastes, he believed all good things in life were earned, rather than gained. You would think a rich man of his stature in his early 60's could sit back, put his feet up and relax. But Herbert despised the idea, for he was one to never be seen doing nothing - as he often quotes, doing nothing 'made his teeth itch'.

No, Herb was always doing something; from building new furniture to tending to the gardens, he was up and about 24/7. So much so, people who visited his Manor grounds surmised he ran on clockwork, an unfeeling machine unable to do nothing but grind on methodically through the day. Sadly, what the people didn't realise is that he was, in fact, at the mercy of his obsessive compulsive disorder - his own snarling little demon he'd had to live with for his whole life. If the hedges were not trimmed perfectly, the demon would snarl. If one of the visitor rooms looked too empty, the demon would snarl. If, goodness, a spoon was laid out of line, the demon would snarl, make his head whirl, only in correcting the anomaly would stop it gnawing at his stomach.

There was one advantage to having OCD, however, and that was he knew every corner and cranny of both the O' Doyle Mansion and the gardens outside. Well, that was what he'd thought, anyway.

For upon the morning of Saturday the 2nd August 2016, Herbert discovered a secret his predecessors had hidden, even from himself. A secret that defied common knowledge and that had probably brought about his late family's considerate wealth.

A secret that he would later come to wish he'd never known.

- - -

It was by sheer accident he'd discovered the shed. Upon clearing out the weeds and grasses that had started clogging the miniature river that ran through the gardens, he had slipped, tumbled into the water, and been left facing the back end of the river. The fall wasn't severe enough to hurt him, but enough to dislodge a few rocks in the river bank's side.

At first he saw nothing but dead leaves, mud and moss covered sandstone, but upon further inspection his eyes came across a sharp glint that caught in the sun's glare. To him it looked like a metal plate, or maybe a blade, rusted up and stained near beyond recognition. But, it was unmistakably metal. And whatever it was, it was horrifically out of place.

To say that it had been purely compulsion, not curiosity, that had led Herb to clear off the mud and rock from the bank could possibly be a lie - but to say that curiosity had not proceeded him to open the metal door behind definitely is. For as soon as Herb saw the sand chewn handle his mind immediately wanted to know what was beyond. And before he even knew what he was doing, the door was open and he was climbing inside.

- - -

It turned out the door led directly to a series of catacombs beneath the Manor grounds - something Herb had been completely oblivious to. Ever since a child he had lived here, brought up with his parents, shown the many secrets that hid within the grounds by his late father.

All apart from this one.

His father had disappeared long ago, his mother explaining that he'd found another woman and had left. Herb hadn't believed that, from the almost desperate plea in his mother's eyes to the fact he knew his father had loved his family, he couldn't help but think of it as a lie. And up until now, he had dismissed that thought - for if his father hadn't run away, where was he? But finding this cavern of wandering tunnels, he realised maybe his gut instinct had been right all along; could his father have got lost in these tunnels, unable to escape and subsequently died?

Or maybe he was still here, alive but not quite living.

Herb had shivered at that point. Thinking such thoughts in a dimly lit place like this would only cause his minds to play tricks. If he lost his head, or his way, he would never get back.

There was a very real danger he would suffer the same fate others down here probably had.

He shook his head, cleared the thoughts, and walked on - tirelessy trundling along until he finally came to a dead end where the rocky walls collided together.

- - -

What he'd found was far beyond amazing. Where the walls had closed together someone had crudely chiseled out a door way, 6ft high with a curved arch reminiscent of victorian architecture. The method was clumsy, the jagged stone sharp and even dangerously dagger-like in places. Just like teeth guarding a gaping mouth.

When Herb had finally gone through that doorway he had entered a vast hall, supported by limestone pillars, half eroded, and a floor lined with smooth granite slabs. The air inside was musky, almost miasmic, and stale. The very atmosphere itself was of death, as if the very oxygen that it consisted of had deceased. Even the stone walls resembled long abandoned corpses.

But these things Herb quickly disregarded, for lined in two perfect rows down both sides of the hall were twelve golden statues, sun-kissed and glinting amber in the light of his torch.

There were six on either side, some missing arms, other devoid of heads, but what tied all these masterpieces together was the deliberate attention to detail. And that they were all female.

He could pick out the minute hairs upon their bare arms, the slight bumps under the skin where the arteries knotted around their wrists. For those with heads, their hair flew out around them, as if caught in a summer breeze, and, most fascinatingly, Herb could gaze into their eyes and see the brushed lines of the iris and the miniscule veins around the edge of their sockets. The attention was precocious, compulsively perfect, and the result was dazzlingly beautiful.

When he'd eventually torn his eyes away from the statues, Herb's gaze fell upon the dankly lit shed sat right at the back of the hall. It was ugly, falling apart in places and obviously riddled with wood rot. Surrounded by the statues of gold, it looked sorely out of place, like a stray dog that's wandered onto a Crufts show.

Not even realising, he started towards it, by-passing the statues and their grimacing faces, instinctively seeking to open the shed door and peer inside. Why would this be down here? The sculptures are unexplainable but having a garden shed locked deep in some catacombs is even stranger. Maybe it's owner forgot about it... or wanted no one to ever find it.

And that's when he realised something was stuck to the bottom of his shoe, stopping him merely a few yards from the shed. Reaching down, he ripped it off and opened it up, the sprawling hand writing instantly denoting it was a note of some kind.

Ignorant to the sudden wind behind him that wheezed through the archway, Herbert started to read the final words of his long lost father.
- - -

There was once a stuttering freak,
who floundered at every syllable he tried to speak -
many people called him queer
so he lived in fear;
fell down at life's knees, fragile and weak.

Every cold winter's night he'd kneel and pray, wishing
for the freedom to walk the streets without being called gay -
judged by his clothing, odd stride and hair
swallowed up in a world that's disgustingly prejudice and unfair

Oh, why live in a world writhing with sin?
To be ridiculed by merciless ******* that just want your dreams to collapse, cave in -

shot with ***** looks from blackened eyes,
living with luxuries that some despise -
alcohol, drugs, morals becoming less and less
the human race spiralling out of control as we indulge in ***,

and so our stuttering hero spat in the face of strife,
alas in a cruel twist of fate, that person carried a knife -

with a swift punch to his head,
he was knocked to the floor and hacked at until dead -

seems that in our shattered world, not even courage wins;

sprawled upon a paving slab in his own blood

floating away from our sins...

AJ

Guided by beer light down moonlit streets
pockets stuffed with stale tobacco and receipts,
pariahs of the night, queens of the teen-age
attacking their youth in a drug fuelled rage

shaking their bodies 'neath schizophrenic lights
a typical night filled with hatred and fights,
the bloodlust was fun, a midnight boogie,
danger both caustic and infectiously groovy

girls all wearing dresses too small for their *****
disk jockeys playing electro-pop to please the masses -

#WAM!#

#BAM!#

#OH YEA, OH MAN!!!#

like raving corsairs they arrived; guitars lean, leather jackets sublime

o'behold the rip-roarin' Raven's Clandestine

["People ARE YOU READY?!"]

they played rock that growled in your ears
snazzy lyrics metaphorical tears,
indulging in passion, ***, alcohol and heavy drugs
dismissing dire warnings with cockily executed shrugs

swaggering to blistering tunes in front of the crowds
singing songs '******-*****' and 'Rebel-Tastic' obnoxiously proud,
falling in love on the stage, falling in love in their beds,
adorning their wild hair with tassels and threads

blissfully ignorant they simply didn't care
wanted to do what they want, alas life ain't that fair -

the bassist met a rogue *****, contracted ***

the guitarist lost his sight, carried on playing though he couldn't see,

the drummer lost his cool and battered a fan
found high on *******, for 10 years locked away more than

and the lead singer, with his hip swagger 'n jive,
suffered a massive stroke, upon the stage in a screeching solo he died

[he hides his sinister within songs
died gazing at *******-clad chicks in fluorescent thongs]

promising to be legends they rocked the 1970's ambiguous nation

alas their substance abuse and ****** desires had already cursed them to damnation.

Three thumbs,
an inverted nose -
the socket dilapidated and hollow
from which her left arm grows;

yet, quietly she breathes,
whilst her life-support machine hums,
chewing on her sixth finger
from a mouth with no gums.

The accidental off-spring
of one belated wife
and one related groom -
a nightmarish parody,
twisted from the bruises of a womb -

but, by miracle, she lives
crying from eyes that won't close -
a new-born child
with the face of a blackened rose;

and outside,
out of raging curiosity,
the whole world queues,
trying to see the baby in the little red shoes.

Would it be so bad if it dies?
Would it be so bad
not to hear its gurgling cries?

Or would you want it to live,
take away its self-respect,
just like a thief,
force it to live in a life
of ridiculing grief -

What would you choose
for the deformed child in the little red shoes?

You've never been one to give up
a door to hope nobody will ever shut,
like a star in the nights sky, building your own constellation
you're my little sister and my biggest inspiration

these past few months have been the toughest we've known
but when it seems things had fallen apart and everything had gone
you still lit up the room - even knowing things will be difficult for a while,
powering on through with that infectious cheeky smile

I know I've not been the best brother
and that sometimes it's looked like I don't care,
but trust me I really do -
I just want you to know, if you ever need me I'll always be there.

They arrived with grins on their faces
***** blisters upon their cheeks, cataracts in their eyes,

shambling side by side their former shadows
bringing along swarms of rats and flies

skin woven from the finest flesh
breath stolen and rattling,
mud and decay ran down their mutilated faces
washed by a downpour of rain that was battering

no longer human and not quite beautiful
frazzled brains driven by the lust for perfection,
hair twisted static-charged nylon
covering their faces marred by nightmarish complexions

fingernails grey, attached by permanent adhesive,
teeth black, gums bloated and oozing
septicaemia and gangrene
spread by the inferior equipment they were using

oh they stole unattended babies
farming them for fresh stem cells and skin,
crawling around beneath Manchester's sprawling city
living in their world claustrophobic and dim -

what is the meaning of their existence
where did these freakish misfits spawn from?
Ah that is a question we already know the answer to -

'tis from the paranoid mind of a greedy schizophrenic they were born

and they exist to serve as a constant reminder
that total perfection we will never gain

and to try such an impossible deed

would leave any man bereft, inhumane.

Drunkards crawl through pools of *****
bruises and mascara smother stripper's eyes,
beneath stale air and drunken haze
ulterior motives and false perceptions are easily disguised

stained beauty slowly curdles
teenage morals gradually decompose, as
****** frustration ignites, burning beneath disco lights
lust blooming like sordid petals of a rose

boys eye girls bra-less and raving
vying for a flash of flesh or ******,
anticipations defy logical explanations
as juvenile love starts to tickle

alcohol brews caustic feelings
lacklustre defences and warped attractions,
some look for relationships and lifetime lovers
whilst others seek mere distractions

escaping the reality of a life
gouging its gnarled nails upon our skin,
the fact that staying weak is easier
tempting us to give in to deviled sin

for what's the point in staying strong,
only to be dragged along upon the floor?

What's the point in living,
when you just don't know what you're living for?

His head lies in the sunlight
grease-paint and mascara smeared in flecks,
passed-out upon room 5's windowsill
whilst all around his friends frolic and have ***

he stinks of Michael Kors'
with his designer suit and dip-dyed hair,
he thinks the girls dig a guy in a suit
but sadly they simply don't care

for class is overrated, manners belated,
he went out looking for a bit
instead he threw up on the karaoke machine
and now he just looks like a ***

disco lights schizophrenic, blinding,
covering his face burning with embarrassment
simple childish fun curdled sour
stumbling through a crowd hurling harassment

passing by drug abusers and rich fixers
taxi cabs beep, run-down and stained,
prostitutes sell in ***** horns and bunny suits -
his need's dire but his wallet's drained

for money can buy pretty much anything
but with one tiny exception -

no amount of printed-paper notes
can buy a life of true, honest, perfection.

She hides from her mother
ignores her dad,
she dwells within loss
and all things sad

her stomach's sick in the morning
she doesn't know why,
oh, she locks herself away
to break down and cry

heart jitters -
throat chokes in a lump -
every time her mind strays
to thoughts of her body's little flat bump

knowing what it might be
paranoid about how much it shows,
fooling herself no one will notice
even if it grows -

alas her head swells
sick with clotted disdain
no she can't carry on -
can't carry on with the pain

so up she opens to her parents
tears flowing from both eyes
unmasking the secret
that for months she's disguised

distraught, weeping,
the sordid act now told,
her mother heartbroken
her father disgusted but bold

"There's only one thing to do,"
he muttered with a voice that was hoarse
and down the ****** route of abortion
did they both start to course

her mother weak, pleading,
begging her daughter to think again -
her father furious, saying don't be so stupid
she's only the age of ten

and so Alice had enough
buckled and snapped,
her lust for life
sorrows parasite finally sapped

off the city bridge, into the icy water
did she jump and dive -

now encapsulated within the womb of death,
that keeps both mother and child alive.

I fear the insanity of reality
the dying of the light,
I fear the poisoned blood inside my veins
and the nightmares that plague my nights,

I fear the cancer within a killer's eyes
the two-faced tyrant that shifts disguise -
I fear the loss of touch's sense upon my skin
the stark fact of being unable to give in,

I fear the men behind the make-up
red noses, big shoes, dickie bows and ties -
I fear loneliness's tortured silence,
of being left alone with my mind's screaming cries,

I fear the dead girls in white dresses
the struggles of modern life and it's many stresses -
I fear of finally flipping over the edge
cursed with the bastardised genes with which I'm drenched,

I fear the mysteries that life beholds
the thieves that'll creep in, steal my shallow breath,

I fear the eventual eventuality,

that is to be woken by the chilling whisper of Death.

Chewing upon fingers rotten and curled
knowing everything makes sense in a senseless world
inglorious, bedridden, they hide behind trees -

serving up genocide, well-spoken and civilised

clawing at the insides of our sordid society
wearing TNT like it's the latest fashion
they smile politely and walk upon our streets -

brainwashed and stupefied, Dumb-hounds corrupted and paralysed

crawling down the path of a religion
birthed from self-righteousness and bomb-smoke
upon their jealousy, their juvenile blinding faith
we suffocate, gag and choke

visualising the world from eyes
of despotic marauders
selfish needs defeats the objective
desensitised clones bound to extremist orders

innocence green-eyed and bastardised
reciting prayers bound together with cyanide
they call upon a Lord that no longer cares
alas the tendril of insanity catches them unawares

for 'tis within the womb of bloated belief
that martyrs are bred,

sanity unreeling, dangerously unfeeling,
and willing to allow our streets run red.

Sashes on the pavement, lovers in a ditch
singing their own love songs in the highest pitch,
the Heartbreak City banks, full of disgusting ****** and tramps -
welcome to your new Empire of dust, forever lit beneath low phosphour lamps

strutting down those streets with your hands on your hips
filthy smile smeared over those tempestuous lips,
stinking of the latest high maintenance fragrance
the ****** arrogance that flips and fits

the hottest ***** I've ever seen
from a nobody to the penultimate Killer Queen,
champagne, diamonds, expensive tastes,
spending money on luxuries and other waste

oh I love your exotic ideas, your shattering impatient thoughts
spreading the *** craze that warps and distorts,
your people slumber in poverty, weep at your knees
instead of mercy you gift them with drug addiction and disease

children crying upon high streets
lawyers demanding prostitutes for tax receipts -

oh here they come -

the worst is un-seen

oh here they come -

both unjust and un-clean

the beautiful people are mannequins and they hide in shadows
birthed from ****** within Satan's abysmal gallows
clicking fingernails rotted and curled
whispering everything makes sense in a senseless world -

this perfection is not what it used to be
your quest is useless, for can't you see -
the beautiful people are plague, and they hide behind trees
and sooner or later they'll catch you, steal and contort your dreams.

Eyes of coal that sparkle in the light
breathing through mucus they hide from sight,
******* the life out of us but their hearts beat dead,
their teeth stained yellow, vile hands stained red

bullet wounds
gun shot holes
maggots and lice thriving
between fleshy folds

disgustingly perfect, attached together with surgical seams
ripping minds open and feasting upon dreams;
Bogeymen of the new age, souls unjust and undone
an obscenity to all even Death does run -

gods sinful monkeys and alien babies
fed with drugs and frothing with rabies
stealing new borns, fresh blood to medicate,
creating new gods to **** upon and hate

the Beautiful People are back and more horrific than ever,
their grotesque masked with wax feathers

masquerading as angels, slyly drawing you in
corrupting your mind with mutilated sin

everything makes sense in a senseless world
sanity insane, torturous, curled

and as I look at their swaying fleshy folds
I fear for humanity, for what the blackened future holds -
incarnadine stained nails, rotted bones, lungs riddled with pus
yes the Beautiful People are abhorrent

*but they're also one of us.

Slowly burning it glazes my eyes
a sorrow so pitiful, quietly it cries
excitement subdued, older but not ready,
my mind exhausted as I go on twenty

I feel shattered, these past years I resent -
a chance to live life, but in mundanity they were spent
'tis only now that I can see those wasted years
older and wiser and closer to my fears

my ego blames others, alas the fault lies with myself
insecure, selfish and obsessed with wealth,
serendipity being the most lethal disease
becoming the recluse I strived so hard to appease

at times I'm angry, the fury both caustic and draining
and if it's not my hygiene it's my love that is waning
blood black, clumpy and running thicker
soul cold-hearted, callous, self-centred and bitter

I care about nothing, no one, only about how it all could've been better
oh why should looking back make my heart heavier?

March 12th 1996, the day I started my graceless fall

this Saturday I'll be 20

but I simply don't want to be older at all.

20 years wasted.

He slept as the waking sun approached
suspended in time and spaceless animation,
a man seeking to traverse the stars,
he died gazing with eyes of fascination

with a cigarette hanging jauntily from his mouth
and arms hastily folded,
surrounded with charred magazines and empty canteens
slumped, his skin heavily blistered and scolded

his last hours were that of beauty
lost in silence and subdued by its respect,
he knew his time was up
but of this journey he'd never forget -

"It's just.. so.. beautiful, how can I not love these stars?!
To my left lies Earth, to my right glows Mars -"

his ship a silver bullet plummeting towards the pulsing sun
the tragedy of his voyage forever embedded into everyone's minds,
a shadow soiling the pride of humanity,
a catastrophe that we simply cannot leave behind

#BOOM#

#CRACK#

#FLASH!#

feeling infallible we found nothing but failure
yet through bitter determination we still try,
preparing for another man to be sent in the Lieutenant's footsteps
knowing indefinitely that he could die

"LIFT OFF IN... 5... 4... 3... 2... 1 -"

pathetic, egotistic
desires churning out ideas ridiculous, caustic

vying to conquer space, the whole Galaxy,
yet again greed and power drives the human soul -

alas, such does a few lives become expendable

when we seek that one perfect goal.

Home every night about half eight or nine
hand in hand with my latest design -
so super-sonic, he's angelic, he's demonic
my new name's feature, uh uh

sometimes the light is grainy
his face so pallid, hazy

I know he's in there somewhere, where there's no pain nor shine
oh so despotic is this thin-white-joke of mine

transmission inbound to the newly deceased
the chimes are ringing, he's been released

hopefully we'll go to the Haven where
we can be tied together -

*I know he's in there somewhere, where there's no pain nor shine
oh so platonic is this thin-white-joke of mine.

She kisses with liquorice lips,
grins with an auriferous smile,
she lures with skin as soft as feathers
and devours with teeth of a crocodile,

she doesn't care who she hurts
or who she teases -
she's able to ignore all the agony
so long as it pleases -

O' she'll grab your mind with her greedy eyes,
then seize you by the ***** -
a ****** expression, ******* on a cigarette,
she whispers in the night and mockingly drawls,

clad in tights that unveil the premises of liposuction,
she'll make you sick, and disgraceful;
rip apart love and **** on it, then deny its abduction

for when it all looks lost, and you finally flip,
she'll only preen, groaning at your petty insults -

she's a flower, black and withered,

she's death by **** results.

Love is a word too many times I've heard
say it to show affection
to indulge in temptation and lurid satisfaction,

thrown around like a leprositic disease
the blasphemy a sin enough to bring me to my knees

it reeks of fake and knocks me sick
a glimmer of hope that's just too quick
is it any wonder my mind's paralysed
when such a word is a substitute for lies?

The sound churns my stomach, rots my brittle insides
you stupid *****, you've unleashed the septic I tried to hide
a simple word you really shouldn't have said
for now the pale God's alive and my conscious is dead

and now I stroke the shiny scars I bare
wondering if I ever have the capacity to care
the confusion curdles and warps
for what is love when people continue to distort?