He loved the texture beneath his fingers, contorting folding
it into intricate forms. What was singular undefined,
now had purpose other than what it was before.
He would tear it clean, not displaying its violation that
its purity had been contaminated.
Weaving imagery into a form from what was a newly
developing formation. His thoughts were now as seen
before the eyes, yet when he was finished the beauty before
his eyes lingered for minuscule moments.

Then with the lighter fluid he would caress its form subtly
with this liquid, where once ridged edges they now wept in
collapsing embodiment of the features that defined its complexity.
And with but a finger and thumb, what could have been,
what was before him. But now struck igniting like
a momentary sun, a match lingered as if he was teasing this
inanimate object that feared neither its creation nor its demise.

He waited till it descended like a coffin knowing it was
about to be snuffed out from existence feeding on the
nourishment of this splinter until he felt it crave the flesh
which held upon it. Casting it on his creation,
it was dominated instantly in a flame that gorged
on its new found nourishment. Within moments his creation
and light were expended from this moment and all that
lingered in its place was a pile of grimy ash.

Where beauty had stemmed into creation, now there was
nothing but scarring of what was once adorned in this place.
He looked upon the world as unconditioned edges that
needed smoothing out in his own ideological view of the world.
To his eyes all was rough thoughts, and even more evading
unsymmetrical reflections of what needed straightening out.
Utilising his passion for formation he delved into the creation
of humanity, and with his still hand he decided to appreciate the
human form.

How with subtle tweaks it could be contorted in too a formation
of intricate beauty, not the stale silhouettes that graded his
sight, every motion like drones of imperfection.
He had to see what a rough endeavour would bear.
Either fruit, or a piece of artistic endeavour that would lie
crumpled disowned on the floor below.
It wasn't as easy as he had anticipated the cuts sublime but
flesh tethered to oblivion is nothing, and with each laceration
it became more of a farce than of creation.

He In frustration even though they had whimpered out there
last plea hours before he lunched at this vacant tapestry
ripping into it with the frustration, expelled source material
all over his being. He knew that this was collateral damage,
and for beauty to be formed there were going to be some
cuts that were to deep to mend. So with a sullen heart,
he cradled this fallen realization,that he needed to heed his own thoughts.

He put it in an old shopping trolley and ignited this fallen work, 
standing there feeding the congregation of two opposites.
What once was, now soot on charred grass below.
And to grade himself in books on contorting flesh and anatomy.

Needing ways that he could numb and silence flesh,without losing
the spark that wielded such beauty as it still breathed,
helping him with his creational form.
Time was evident on his further attributions, he had learnt as
one should in future accomplishments. One should learn from
past errors (mistakes) and the first was an abortion of realization.
He needed to find the inclination point where it would be how
his vision needed to be climaxed into form.

With this he had constructed a square metal frame with
segmented stages. Where he could divert this form from
humanity to his desired form.
He could not have just anyone, types or stereotypes.
One may ponder where his persuasion. Not overly skinny
or bigger proportions. For they would either tear from
the strain, or unable to contort to the desired and needed
formation of his vision that needed form.

But patience is a virtue and though it took time, he was able
to attain the needed instruments of creation.
Time was the essence he pondered, and it worked.
The frame was adjustable to expand or decrease the needed
distance and form. Now ready, so much time had passed,
but perfection isn't a clock that stays still, perfection is a movement
of time gradually showing us the motion of before now and after.

His untorn pieces, needing those of no tattoos, of no piercings.
As this would blemish his art, and either contort of split in a
time utter most delicate movements. His fingers were static
his mind as sharp as his tools to motivate this intricate
melody. He wore a ceremonial mask, as this wasn't something
to be taken lightly respect for the form and that of who
was being given this opportunity. In the background soft
instrumental music to expand his muse.

Knowing now where cuts would not induce the death of
this piece. Realizing a wrong furrow could just subjugate
this to a crumbled mess, no longer useful to him or life.
Bones were bent over time so not to break, but to contort
to his new form. Drips hung like tears, feeding the will
to live, even though they wanted to die. He furthered this
creative moment, finding himself smiling underneath
his mask.

Feeling alive again, this was his moment of creative mastery.
He started to peel flesh, this had to be in one sitting due to
the delicate time frame. What was pliable would become brittle
in form. ruining what had taken months to achieve.
The system he had set for this moment, a fine spray of
antibacterial moisturizing seeds of mist. Tt just the right level
so not to make the flesh tear or dry out and break.

It was finished, his art was realized. Now he had to display it.
But as with all creations an audience was needed.
So he cradled it gently, knowing this location would be vacant.
Calling the press on a throw away phone.
He called it, "Human Evolution" even thought it was
anything of the sort. And as cameras flashed, the world saw
his creation. And the horror of his mind contorted from reality.
On what fulfilment was contorted from perfection to this
origami muse of humankind.

Tears of Joy littered his hands, his fingers now shaking with
the anticipation that what was now done, could be done again.
When the news faded and where skin was folded,now there
was just a person. A contorted remembrance of what
humanity can achieve. Tears flow like floating paper boat
on a stream, this one hasn't sunk yet. But this was one of
many creations to come, for what is the body if not art
to be gazed upon.

Nobody likes me,
           I may as well make them
     all eat worms...

Where once there was ridicule,
           now there's  just silence.
          Everybody hates me....

But now there no longer versing,
               now its just me rehearsing
my tears for there funeral....

Once is for sorrow
                 twice is a rehearsed verse
        third times the charm..

No one will know,
          that I'm the one that
                        silenced there verse.

Once they spoke,
           twice they made me cry,
  third time I cured the disease...

I'm happy now that I can sit quietly,
        I'm smiling now that words are dead.
              ill sit here in silence,
And absorb the silence of there passing..

I collect crayons,
              that I coloured eyes upon.
All where closed but I painted them
                                 open...
Death can only have you when you
    shut those lids of sight  open to life.
But when there vacant it comes instead.

I coloured there lids that were
                                  closed tightly shut,
Why should I give it the fulfilment
                    when I have so much fun left.


I use blue, green & brown,
such pretty colours, I use hues of both.
       Remember eyes are mirages
                       of not one but three.
But I don't want it to take you,
                      that treats for me.
I colour you in, ill open your eyes.


But death will never have you,
          as only I can colour in your eyes.
Only I can paint those baubles of the soul,
          only I can colour in what's left behind.
l'll colour you in, ill keep your eyes open wide.
         even though your gone
                   ill keep your memory vividly alive.

And in the field I did lay,
          with the flowers
I did stay,
              wilting when there
petals fall..
            My tears now dry
                                like there stem.

In the field I lay silent,
         with the corpses
                    of pretty flowers.
Nothing lives only decays,
      I'm just a flower,
             no longer blossoming
      Just decaying, my petals deceased.


The field of empty flowers,
           with not a blossom.
Where everything that once  lived
                    now stagnantly lies.
   The aroma of death where I once blossomed
now rests beneath the earth...
              I was a flower now buried beneath.

I wish to be
an infamous serial killer,
that targets love-thirsty men.

I mean,
wouldn't it be interesting
to slash through their hearts,
with sharp, flirtation glances,
or cutting through entrails
to look for stomach butterflies,

what about blowing up their minds,
when I don't respond to convos,
and kneeing them with shrugs
till they beg for attention.

alas,
I was victimised,
before I can even morph into
a cold-blooded murderer myself

The ideas to some would verse on the loathsome depravity
of humanity. But in my line of work what can I say there are lines,
fetishizes that even a calm exterior camouflages within
the proportioned exterior. But where the concept ferments on
there conceptions what if I could just once.

I had spun a myth that you could call for the latter fake news,
that to partake on those still exhaling life while feeding
upon them could in essence harvest their youthful years.
and to an amazement this was perceived as truth of word.
But I didn't mind, feeding dark fantasies was justice enough

I would move around in a covered lorry, it was quite
the thing to see not like a slaughter house on wheels more
a bistro, if you can envision it black reflective tiles where
the meat would be  cut. "yes they liked to watch their food.
but I had organized it so it was easy to dispose of evidence.

Admittance to ones own errors in judgement is ones first step
to learning. I had invited a select few to see how it would play out.
You could never quite tell, I had vetted them of course before hand.
Seeing if their fear would procreate to me being an jumpsuit lackey
of the orange tint variety. But my faith in humanity was resorted.

For I had taken precautions these tables were rigged,
what you think I'm just a cook? I was in university years of
wasted youth, but I learnt much. Knowing the foundations of
what I was doing, lets just say they'd be static if I were betrayed.
And for good luck, my beautiful little lady slept under the counter.

They watched in admiration for my art, asking the questions
of "was it alive. I had left a drainage hole for the blood to
seep warm to a holding bowl. Some had versed that they
wanted not only to taste, but drink upon this special occasion.
So they to gorged on life's rose bouquet and adored its tasting.

What I hadn't perceived was that to keep them static of
motion was not a wise choosing. They say to much of
something is a good thing, they weren't joking.
The blood had to much sedative in it, luckily all had slumbered
on there drive home.The coriner had a busy night.
But all had tweeted its success before become as dead as lunch.

This time it was different, I just created a gag to muffle, but to
also verse the whimpering murmurs of there ill begotten pleas.
Did they not think if they were this deep in the rabbit hole?
There was no way of digging themselves out of this..
But people liked the noise while eating there meal.
                                                                   "silence is death,

The only way it would end would per say, once I broke down.
sights not meant to be seen, murmurs escaping there captivity.
Nearly happened once, "ONCE, is enough  the mechanic
finished fixing my engine "Dam spark plug, but as he
wondered on to next appointment in life. A silly notion
of my ignorance, bumps loosen bonds, and voices loosen
to the sound of another's presence.
"What was that, "hello are you ok, "Sir what's going on,
Last words not befitting, now I have two meals to prepare.
Luckily a local to the place now a missing poster somewhere.

I travel this country of mine, meals on wheels of a different
kind, giving those of unique human traits there just taste.
If I wasn't doing it others would have and not in my good
taste. Do you know they say that the flesh taste like chicken?
To those who follow me, they think it extend there finite
moment on the rock hurtling to oblivion some day.

Me, I just enjoy my skills, cooking is life, you are what
you eat. So if you have a strange friend who invites you
to a once in a lifetime meal, be careful for those of squeamish
inclination will only see this once for if I sense there needing
to snap-chat.. to food **** my creations on social media.
horrified by the unique blending of my creations.
Think for one moment? is this other really your friend!!
Or do they wish to partake on your flesh, a delicate aroma
of your live being drunk upon.. they smile as you fade.

Undisclosed location,
                    where his words.
a flower buried with its petals intact.

But all will wilt, given time.

So many dead flowers forever obscured

I'm three years old,
        my mummy asks me?

"What ya wanna be when ya grow up,

"A serial killer mummy,

After that she hide the knifes?

[Puzzlement] covered my face, now that's
a big word for someone who's three, spell
check if you want to see.....

"Baby you ok?

[Puzzlement,] "I know go me. She looked
as I did was this look was it somewhat
[contagious] "I know I'm three,

"Yes mummy I'm a cereal killer. I plunge
my spoon in to my breakfast till it seeps
milk then when I've finished I bury it.

"Bury it, yes in the bin mummy there
remains rot and make fertilizer.
"My mummy looked relived,

But I didn't tell her I bury them in the garden,
in the little black bags in the flower bed.
Decaying cereal feeding the flowers nourishment.

I live in the basement, never venturing
upon those stairs, I hear her voice...
"Come up and see me its been to long,
Holding my ears singing my favourite song
repetitively until she is drowned out of
my thoughts. rocks tied to her voice as it
sinks out of view.

I use the stairs that open to the outside,
Lingering looking at this place I called home.
Venturing in the old ford, she lets me drive
it when food is but breadcrumbs and eggs
old enough to birth the dead fetes of a partly
grown bird. I look out though a ***** window
screen, this trip takes two hours each way.

I always wonder if my bald tyres are ever
noticed, but I'm not hindered by the thoughts
of this. So much to see when driving in solitude.
I stop at the side of the road picking cherries,
I slump them in the boot. I may eat upon this
morsel or just hang them outside watching
them swaying in the gentle breeze.

My father just looks out the window.
Doesn't talk much these days his eyes are sunken
like the titanic splintered between two pools.
I move his chair and his arm falls at his side.
collecting it, I put him palms resting on a blanket
He's so gaunt now, he was a strong man now but a shadow.

I look at those cherries lingering above the ground,
shaded from just picked to becoming spoilt, but i
just leave them swaying the aroma fills lungs with
life's eroding perfume, I breath it deeply within.
This is my home, "she never calls me for dinner anymore,
I just make my own, the washing up is festering in
my ignorance, like a garden of petrification flowering.

Saying bye to my dad, I get in the old ford.
Its time to pick some fresh cherries, the tree
is looking unkempt. Its blossom is in honour
of a mother, I hang them all there. My
Mother hung there for a long time ,but she's
long gone. So I bring other cherries to the tree
to show that she'll never be forgotten....