I literally want to see you die
I want to stab you in the eye
I want to see and make you cry
And let me tell you why

Why I want to slit your neck
Why I want to see you wreck
Why I want you buried below the deck
Why? I'll tell you in a sec...

Before or after I hang you by your nose
Before or after I cut off your toes
Before or after? Nobody really knows
Before or After... okay here it goes

The reason I want to tear you apart
The reason I want to leave your dead body in a cart
The reason truly comes from the heart
So, let's begin from the start

The night you became a witch
The morning that you became a *****
The afternoon you made me scream high pitch
The evening that you will find yourself in a ditch

The story is too long and you already know it
If my emotions got hit, you'd never quit
You know your eyes lit, cause you're a *******
And that's why your skin has got to split

So say "goodbye"
Tonight, you shall die
From my heart you shall no longer get high
Because even you know, it was all a lie.

You ripped apart my soul, I no longer wish for someone's arms to be wrapped around my body. And just as you always do, you came back, just like that. Not because you miss me, not cause you love me. But because you are a killer, and killers always come back to their crime scene

In the moonlight, high in the Lemon Gum,
perched under the arching ghostly branches
two eyes of jet peer from a snow-white mask.
Tyto Alba, the Barn Owl, with heart shaped
****** disc, edged with ruff of stiff feathers.
Mottled pearl-grey body feathers above
the moth like plumage, purest white beneath
her slim legs are bare on the lower half,
with small feet that end with deadly talons.

Nocturnal, she roosts in the heat of day.
You will hear her screeching in the cold night
hear the scream before you ever see her.
She can see in the half light of humans
night vision even in total darkness
pinpoints her prey by listening to each sound
the desperate, scuttling little creatures make.

She is a well designed killing machine
with hooked beak, powerful feet and sharp claws.
Her flight feathers have softened edges
to make her deadly flight near soundless
She swoops silently down without warning
seizing victims with her claws, biting deep
into their neck arteries, puncturing
their most precious organs for a quick death.

There is a man from my city that spent his nights
killing and ******* men for the hell of it.  Sometimes I worry that
his blood might be in the water like 160 year old cholera
or 30 year old cryptosporidium.  Sometimes I worry that
I breathed in the stardust from which he was made, that I
swallowed the ashes from which he burned.  I do not think that
I will ever be American ****** enough to fit the bill, and
this might be my one true happy thought:
at least I am not a serial killer.

I closed my eyes in August and saw the dried up teeth of my
estranged grandmother floating in a pool of blood and thought about
how the phone works both ways.  I opened my eyes in
October and thought about spitting up the chicken bones I had
been choking on since second grade, when my father
helped prepare dinner for the last time.   (I think I might have
                                          sacrificed a couple people to the devil
                                                        without actually meaning to.)

I find the numbers
             13,               16,               and               18
to be unlucky and I am beginning to fear that the pattern
will continue, that 19 will be the year I finally get bitten by
poisonous snakes outside of my dreams.  God whispered in my ear
and told me that a different Helter Skelter was coming.  He told me to
keep breathing easy, to trust in his light, but when I
asked my Magic 8 Ball if I should quake like the Earth in 1960, the
day after Satan released Dahmer from Hell, all I got was a
bright blue, “Better not tell you now.”

The séance I conducted last year in a blackened, decaying cemetery
did nothing but rattle ghosts, and the four-year-long pity party I held prior
did nothing but chain those ghosts to the floorboards.  I have
never been good at abandoning my thoughts and feelings.  

Some mornings I wake up face down in the Green River or
with my head severed and on display in a refrigerator of a house that
is not mine.  Other times I awake buck-naked in Death Valley—
sand coating my tongue, my tonsils, my esophagus; burning
and scratching into my flesh—and I know that I will never
be able to forgive my father for destroying everything
he ever made or his mother for turning into everything that’s
just      out of                     reach.
There has never been a time when I have been
good at letting go of grudges.  I am far too aware of my own existence.

At least I am not a serial killer.

Please don't fall in love with me.
Don't wind your way into my ivory heart.
I will poison you like a drug,
Your mind will turn dark and your heart will freeze over
until your blue veins turn to ice.
Do not fall in love with me.
My head is home to too many voices as it is.
Please, stay away.
This sadness is a killer and there's no reason for both of us to die.

I have hid behind broken shadows, disappointed daydreams and somber reminders.

I have been bitten by the black widow of life, poisoning my veins with her venom of death.

I have been mutilated like one of Jack the Ripper's victim on the dark streets of London, left to bleed out.

I have escaped the evil smiles of Pogo the Clown that crept in my dreams as I slept at night, crying my black tears.

I have been Bound, Tied and Killed by the innocent friendly neighbor, twisted in the head by the devil himself.

I could hear the screams of the pregnant actress as the Family took her life in a blood bath, as they began their Helter Skelter.

I can not escape this Alcatraz of torture in my mind, that has been placed there by the lunatics of our time. But it is fun in this asylum.

Welcome to my padded cell.

Oh, Good ol' Ed was a very strange fellow
Good ol' Ed was a quiet one
Good ol' Ed laughed to himself
Good ol' Ed was someone nobody could understand

Oh, Good ol' Ed loved women
Good ol' Ed loved his women dead
Good ol' Ed love their skin
Good ol' Ed loved to wear their skin

Oh, Good ol' Ed had many prized possessions
Good ol' Ed had a lamp shade made out of a face
Good ol' Ed had bowls made out of skulls
Good ol' Ed had a heart in a sauce pan

Oh, Good ol' Ed wasn't so good after all
Good ol' Ed had his share of issues
Good ol' Ed loved too much to play with dead things
Good ol' Ed wasn't so good after all