#dahmer
He hurt people
He killed
He'd drill holes in their heads and eat their insides
They gave their souls to him
They were scared of what he'd do next
But he was just as terrified as they were
A creation of anger and loneliness
Raising the glass
He says that the universe has no regrets
Mar 23
Mar 23, 2026 at 11:39 AM UTC
"If i was killed in prison, that would be a blessing right now."
-Jeffery Dahmer
november twenty eighth, he prayed
to god, to mom, to sun and shade,
gave thanks to all the boys he ate;
november twenty eighth, he laid
and thought till his last ***** breath:
"well, this has been my life, i guess,"
as scarver beat him blissfully
into his deliquescing death.
he thought of all the things he did
while down came scarver's metal bar
(and not because he'd killed those kids,
but 'cus his pranks had gone too far).
the guards went home that night and slept
while someone, somewhere, soundly wept.
Oct 23, 2018
Oct 23, 2018 at 8:50 AM UTC
Buddha belly, rabbit’s foot,
how much luck can you get
from touching the dead?
(Maybe that’s the reason behind Jeffrey Dahmer’s slaughtering of
seventeen men;
maybe that’s the reason why we break wishbones—
to remind ourselves that this bone is dead
these hands are alive
do something with them.)
In some cultures, it is socially acceptable to
eat your child’s placenta—
there is good fortune in it, power in it.
(I wonder if this is the reason why cannibals eat their victims.)
Number seven. Cross on the wall.
I wish you good luck.
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 5:36 PM UTC
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.
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 6:29 PM UTC