"Young Man found Murdered in East End. Police believe that in the early hours of Tuesday morning a young man who hasn’t been named  was tragically killed. His body was found the following morning by his cleaning lady. There has been much speculation linking this latest death to the series of murders that has happened in the capital over the past two weeks."

The headline news at the moment, yes another ******. This time another man killed, the ever changing result at the moment is now two men and three young women. It seems the killer prefers severing the femoral artery of his victim, thus securing a fast and ****** end to their poor pathetic lives.

I read intently, the pure supposition by law enforcement officials that seems to me to be almost comical in nature. They bandy words like Serial Killer and Maniac across the pages of every news paper.
I smile, as I fold it in half, placing it neatly on the table next to my breakfast things, for I know that tonight another ****** will occur. First things first though, I have to go and earn my keep.

I work as an investment banker in the cities renown square mile. Yes I am one of those so called pariahs who is happy to receive the extortionate bonuses that the majority of Londoners and the rest of the country, I might add, are all so busy complaining about. I must concede to the fact that I totally deserve every penny I get but I suppose I would say that, wouldn’t I?

Pariah, yes that’s me pretty much to a tee.

Pariah: definition, outcast: somebody who is despised and avoided. Yes that sums me up perfectly even if I do say so myself. Of course most of my friends and colleagues would not be of that opinion at this moment in time but I do believe that they will come to this decision soon enough. As I have already stated, I have a crust to earn so I had better start to make a move, the rent won’t pay its self you know. I won’t bore you with the daily working life of an investment banker, the majority of you idiots wouldn’t understand me even if I did, so I will fast forward ten hours and once more speak to you from more comfortable surroundings, this time in the guise of a well frequented public ale house in the East end of London.

As my night progresses I see her across the now bustling and noisy lounge area and yes, she is something to behold. God has been very kind to this young lady. Her name is Petunia and a more than willing victim one will never meet. She is perfectly formed and voluptuous in every way you can imagine. Just what I am looking for on this lovely summers evening. Over the course of the evening the charm flourishes and Petunia and I laugh, chat and drink our way through it, getting even closer as the night closes in. This is working lovely, that flash of thigh as she rubs her leg along my own. The glint in her eyes tells me that this young woman has succumbed, hook line and sinker to my charms.

Not one of those to big myself up but this is of no surprise to me, as I do believe I have everything almost every woman would ever want. The looks, personality and money, with this in mind, she never stood a chance really. We leave the pub arm in arm, she looks a little unsteady due to the drink.

Come into my parlour said the spider to the fly and she is so prone to take that first step. Our destination, her flat just a stones throw away. My mind racing, excitement so enthused within my cool and calm exterior.

If you have been following the events of the last few weeks you will know that the past five Murders were all committed with a short sharp blade entering into the groin area. I am so aware of that silken metal that the steel presents to my leg. I feel it intently even through the leather sheath that is bound so securely below my trouser leg. I am so aroused at this moment in time.

Inside Petunia’s flat we waste no time getting close as I push my quarry back onto the divan. After the initial fumbling we are almost there. As we taste each others tongues my left hand reaches down to select my weapon from its casing. I feel its coldness in my hand, raising it to the desired position. All I have to do now is slide it forward and penetrate.

My hands are sweating. As we feed on each other with our mouths I feel my hand shaking. I try to shut off the emotions now running through my mind but I cannot do it. I pull my mouth away from her succulent lips and realize that this is just not going to happen. It felt like such a good idea until now, I was so motivated before this but I just haven’t got it in me to **** this beautiful woman.

A sharp pain brings me to my senses as the blade slides into my groin. The pumping coldness that is now soaking through the material of my Armani trousers. I am shaking so much, in Hemorrhagic shock, as my life’s blood pumps from my femoral artery. She pushes me onto my back, as I fight to keep breathing, Petunia looks down at me smiling.

“Thank you for a lovely night -- Number Six.”

The reason there aren't so many vampyres
around these days is they don't like TV hype
and the intrusions of TV news crews. It transpires
that vampyres prefer late hours and like low light levels
because they're egregarious and don't like to be seen inebrious
in the middle of their heinous, intravenous revels.
Also, unfavorable reviews about transfusions
and the confusion caused by AIDS, at this juncture,
has definitely reduced the appeal of being seduced
by some crazed and gurgling Transylvanian
bloodsucker lusting to puncture the jugular,
or any other available vein again,
especially when you don't know if they've disinfected their fangs
or only licked them after draining their last victim.

After all, vampyres were brought up in castles
when there weren't antiseptics for gargles
and they haven't been taught prophylactic criteria
against such apocalyptic viral bacteria.
And if you've ever seen vampyres with condoms
on their teeth, you'll know what I mean.  
It's a scream. Everyone finds them hilarious. It'd be easier
to die laughing than to go down with anemia.
Also, like everyone else, vampyres hate ridicule.
No-one likes being seen as the fool.
  
And the other reason vampyres are scarce now
is that there are so many genuine muggers, hoods, crims,
druggies, financial leeches, homicidal maniacs,
psychopathic liars and genocidal tendencies to conjure up real fears
out there, that there's not much room left for quaint old-fashioned vampyres, poor dears.  

But do you know something? Even though they were naughty,
I miss their occasional ****. I know it was gory,
but those kisses, oh boy. We got into the femoral artery inside the thigh. It was *****. But when AIDs came along,
that was it.  Definitely bye-bye. Nobody wanted to die.  
These are the facts.  
So these vampyres were starving and they reverted to bats.  
Did a midnight flit,
and that's the end of my story.

We fell together like we had no other choice.

We fell like two body bags in the back of an ambulance.

And suddenly you were killing me,
a razor to the femoral artery in a bathtub.
My own shirt wrapped around my diaphragm,
your laughter made louder by lack of oxygen to my brain.

And there was nothing else.
My wold turned black and gray because of you.

When I was a real girl,
back before I ever met you,
I would pray to god for a cleansing rain to wash me of my sins
so that I didn’t burn if I stepped foot in his home.

It has rained 729 times since then
and I am still stepping on hot coals.

do something for me, okay?
tell my story at my funeral.
you’re gonna want to say no,
but how do you say no to a dead girl?
you can’t say no to me anyway, can you?

that’s my girl.
you never could.
so, will you tell them?
will you tell everyone
the reason i’m this way?

the reason my hands are useless,
sewn onto my wrists for show?
the reason you see me beside you,
femoral artery on display?
the reason my eyes stay glassy,
hyperfocused on nothing at all?

will you tell them of all
the things you were there for,
the things you saw,
the things you heard?
how you were the only witness,
every step of the way?

i think you will.
tell it all.
[we won’t mention that
when i needed you most,
at the end,
you weren’t there for me either.]

why didn’t you help me?
why didn’t you tell anyone about
all my razorblades, all my pills?

they were practically hand-fed to me,
and where were you?

right beside me, but not where you needed to be.
not helping me, only protecting me.
you protected me to death.

oh, did that hurt?
my apologies.
i guess i’m bitter.

anyway, the last thing i wanted to say?
is thank you.

thanks for finally letting me go.

i'm on top of the world
and waiting to crash

i'm glad summer
is over now
always had too many
false expectations
and winter is better
because everyone
sets the season's
standards low

(except for christmas
but **** christmas
except don't actually
**** christmas
because the pine needles
would probably hurt)

i just want the dishes all
washed and my bedroom
floor completely clean and swept
before i jump in front of a car

(go ahead and hang
me from the chandelier
it's not like i need
my neck in one piece)

but there's some kind of concept
stating that anything left to itself
will steadily grow worse so
if i go now it may just all decay

(flowers sprouting out
of the sink drain and the
ivy on the window taking
hold of the kitchen walls
grass meandering up
through my floorboards)

last week you promised
over cups of morning coffee
that you would do
anything to help me

but that was before
last night when i washed
the coffee *** five times
brewing out the limey residue
of all the things you've said
and this morning it tasted
slightly of vinegar and
i remembered that you
got so lost in old grocery receipts
inside plastic bags under the table
of your own colossal problems
that you just forgot.

(if i were less anxious i would
definitely be an arsonist by now)

and i don't know as
you know about that
concept the one i was
just referring to

(the one that explains
why procrastination
will **** us both
you in your femoral arteries
me in the vicelike death trap
of my ******* head)

because i don't know as
you know that behind
the mania in my eyes is
three four a.m.'s
two five a.m.'s
one six a.m.
and six months
of three a.m.'s.

every time i fry a fish i'm
mentally putting my face
against into the pan and
the lid over my eyes

(and you just want
salad for some reason)

i'm a paragon of raging
domesticity these days
and you're saying how right
you must have raised me

(really it was all your wrongs
that raised me right that way)

you keep accusing me
of being mad at you
so okay i'll just say i'm
******* mad at you

because you can't
control your house
or who lives in it
you can't even take
care of yourself which
means i could lose
you tomorrow and
you don't care that i'm
suffering and dying
just as slowly as you are

(somebody has to
take responsibility
for your actions and
i've always been handy)

you call me selfish when
i learned that from you

(hell only knows
everyone is at least
a little selfish some
just hide it better)

but the other thing you
taught me by example
is that if you want
something done
right you must
do it yourself

*(**** it all
you'll see one day
what i did for you
and **** it all
because i can't save
either of us but you
had better believe i
can clean a ******* house.)

burning strangled fleece we bump chaotically
soft arrogance in morally languid pronation
leg burping fossas femoral twain (in which i'm
giddy a mustache of bristles coarse fuzz and grumbling
prickles hugely onyx( graciously bundled
to what about the huddled pulsing of EXPLODING GRIT!
in every flush molecule of bashful prim ) we girt
or flay the frightened silence scrambling gently on our scalding merriment.:',). . . .   .   .     .             .                                                                 .

here's the price for playin with fire
I'm the dealer you're the buyer

one way ticket to hell
i sense your eagerness, i know it well

STOPPIN FOR PASSENGERS

get some rush thru your vein
here i am to step up the game

okay sit back relax
check your arms .. their full of tracks

moving on to your femoral vein
a 5 mill needle gonna rush your brain

watch out for the DVT
the NHS amputate for free

sit back and enjoy the ride
you're about to lose all your pride

you just handed it to me
i ain't finished yet ... you will see

here i am to make you hurt
as I grind your life into the dirt

(C) MANDY RIGBY 23.06.214

Death is always in the room.

Death was there when you were born,
patiently standing behind the doctor
as he first held you up
and presented you to your mother,
covered in filth and choking for air.
Waiting.

Death was there when you took your first steps,
in case a truck
were to go careening
across your front lawn,
in a freak accident,
slamming through the front window
and into the living room,
ruining the kodak moment.

Death was there for all the important events,
and all the mundane ones:
Looking on with your father
while you learned to ride a bicycle.
Hovering over midfield
during every soccer practice.
One row down from you
in the orchard
during the rainstorm
when you had your first kiss.

And death is still there now,
one instant away from you,
always prepared
for that driver asleep at the wheel,
for that blood clot come unstuck
from the wall of your femoral artery,
for that gunman
suddenly bursting through your door.

But that’s really the beautiful part of it all.

Everything that's ever happened in your life,
everything that mankind has ever accomplished,
every crying newborn baby,
every impossible feat of exploration achieved,
Death was just an instant away—
a shroud around the entire planet
constantly abided and never
broken through

until the very end.

Death is always in the room.

Never express,
Only repress
Then repress
then press again
feelings aren’t not your refuge
But your refuse
Bury your feelings
But the heart only goes so deep
So break it
Let the trash seep
but when you’re at that breaking point
Don’t try to mend
Just spend  
On some form of escape
Find you pusher
And your favorite femoral eye drapes
Never fix
just get your fix
got it?
Good
Need another?
I knew you would

my bare feet and the nose-crinkling tickling of sand-
a contradictory image,
for I was taught to never run with scissors,
your image a rusted blade in my femoral.

my heartbeat and the blithe tide have flirted in a far less than parallel existence,
heels rotting, feet grinding down to the ankle-bones
in the softest fashion,
like a dying rose in vase
in a cubicle too small.

I've inhaled these beaches before.
white dresses have lit up the July wind like lavender candles,
sunsets and barking labs scalping distant couches,
turning my broken back into your expendable canvas.

your birthday has escaped me,
and the tattoo on the back of your sandpaper neck is a static television frequency.

the rip-tide is welcoming me for dinner, filling my lungs with my favorite dessert.

This is mostly based on the true-ish happenings of
Beth Huges was born in the 80s, her parents
called her Lizzy for short well that would explain
a few things. Her upbringing was more in the 70s
then the 80s. Her parents were new-age hippies but
with the chemical abuse of the 80s.

They were vegans, nothing on land was to be sacrificed
for the fulfillment of their needing only organic substitutes.
  They'd eat from the Ocean as that was the well of life
and always giving and in a continuous replenishment cycle.

Not knowing, she was repeatedly dosed with LSD.
to open the spiritual aspects. But Daddy had a bad trip.
            And wore mummies face saying she was
talking through him.

The cops didn't see that way and vented his body with
                           at least nine new breathing holes...
She was still high as daddies blood spayed over her and
she finger painted on the floor.

She'd lived with relatives but this didn't last long as they
were meat-eaters and she had a vast disdain for all who
murdered and disfigured the life of the land.
   Her auntie was a vegan, so realized the pressures.
   But as she got into her older years having episodes.
of repressed trips. Glaring at the walls and painting in
her own blood.
It hit a moment in her twenties when she caught
her auntie giving head to her new boyfriend..

She was disgusted as she heard her call it "the meat,
             distrustful of her auntie and she'd desecrated
the law of her body, after she pleaded no meat.

While her auntie was being contaminated she put
sleeping tablets into their drinks after the *****
inducing acts had finished and she came out of
the room wiping her mouth.

                     "Here guys I made you a drink,

She played it cool reading a book until they
fell unconscious. She was reprehensible that
                   what was being done was right.
Pulling down his joggers she got some
scissors and grabbed it, momentary she put
it in her mouth, it was soft and she felt a sturring
and gagged... with one fatal swipe she cut it off.
throwing this maggot in the fire, Burn filth...
Her auntie lied there silent, her breath deep.

"How could you,

Even though she has momentarily engaged in
                pleasures of the flesh.

She went into the cupboard and found a cleaner,
             the warning on the side said corrosive
wear gloves.

She stroked her aunties hair and then tipped the
entire bottle down her throat to clean the desecration
from her.
All that was heard was a curdling and then froth
expelling from her nostrils and mouth...
She got a cloth and wiped her mouth, even though
doing this had murdered her auntie, she still loved her.
Now she was clean from the manmade contamination.
    Pure once more, the acid mixed with her stomach acid
creating a pungent smell as it was eating through her side.

A pool of blood and partly digested food bubbled
on the floor, it started to eat through the laminate flooring.
At that very moment, she heard screaming incoming on
her kneeled position.
As she turned she saw the half-naked bleeding profusely boyfriend. In his anger, he never saw the pool of corrosive remanence of his departed girlfriend.

Scissors raised and ready for vengeance, he lurched
losing his balance and landed face down in the
bubbling maroon stench.
Lizy scrambled to her feet, ready to run.
Instead, she screamed as he got up and turned around.
The flesh was peeling off, as he grabbed at his now dissolving
features. The shock was too much as she passed out.
A while had passed and as she awoke she went to move
but the scissors were interred in her hair.
Her scalp felt wet, as she touched the area, red liquid coated
shaking hands. She put her fingers in her mouth and tasted,
yes, it was her blood. she pulled at the scissors and they
wouldn't dislodge as they were firmly embedded in the
laminate flooring.

She had no other option but to yank her hair out,
******* that hurt, she had a blad patch where
the hair follicles had pulled away.
Her head spinning, but as she turned around there
he was still, his face no more just white, with patches
of blood his hands around his throat.

She got a hand towel and threw it over his featureless
remanence, and then saw the disemboweled auntie.
If it wasn't for the middle missing dissolved all over the
floor, you'd think she was sleeping.

Lizzy had to think fast, how could she get out of this?
But it was easy, she'd heard shouting and saw her
auntie come out with scissors, soon after her boyfriend
came out blooded, she saw me and told me to hide.
As I watched he grabbed her dragging her to the
cupboard unscrewing a bottle with his mouth,
then pouring it down the struggling auties mouth
at that moment I ran at him pushing him away as her  
auntie convulsing. We struggled but he was too strong.

It was at that moment he grabbed the scissors lifting me up,
he lost his balance and that the last I remember before waking
up with my hair pinned to the floor by the scissors.

The flashing lights were so bright in the darkness as I was huddling it to the waiting ambulance.
Crocodile tears poured from my eyes.
I told my story, it was worthy of an Oscar.
There on the stage, thanking the gullible audience.

As I walked from the courthouse, tears flowing thanking
everyone for their condolences and wishing me well.

I looked in the mirror as I saw my aunties face,
wearing it like my daddy wore mummies.
sprinting at the policeman at the door I got him
in the neck. Shots echoing out into the dark night.

They must have been alerted by the screaming,
can't people just die quietly? I ran into the night.
Not been found yet, but I kept the scissors.

I go after men now, I'm quite pretty for being so
crazy. I offer them ****** favours for drinks,
I always make sure they have a car, that's a must.
My favourite trick is getting them to drive to a secluded
spot offering them head-on their bonnet.
somewhere we will not be disturbed.

It's amazing how gullible men are when they think with
there meat instead of there brain.
I found this awesome pen that's a tasar, telling them
I'm leaving my signature and number, so if they liked it
they knew where to look if they wanted more fun.
Its quite funny the gurgling scream they make when
you zap their ball bags, they crumble like wet paper.

Kind of pathetic really.  Now we alone and there quite,
snip, snip some do take two chops you know.
Then into the woods or the dirt side of the road.
But I learnt from my first time, cut the femoral attire
in the leg, that way they stay down some did come to
but a was driving away by then I heard their
screams and I smiled. Of to the next town now I think
Driving while its dark is better I sell their belongings
in a pawn shop to raise money the dead cant report
their belongings stolen after all. I just tell them there
my ex. They don't really care about where it came from.

I like my new  hobby, at last count I'd snipped fourteen
of them and I still have my auntie with me I wear her
sometimes just to feel close to her.

We fell together like we had no other choice

we fell like two body bags in the back of an ambulance

and suddenly you were killing me
a razor to the femoral artery in a bathtub

and there was nothing else

I used to pray to god for a cleansing rain to wash me of my sins
so that I didn’t burn if I stepped foot in his home

it has rained 729 times since then

and I am still stepping on hot coals

Dirt don't call the lightning
blue or femoral.
In a furious upstroke
my mushroomed spine
explodes in the crown,
splinters of bone
and black lit pumas.
Driven to hell
through a straw
and all the trees
are dead on the road.
My dry lip
adheres to a dry gum
and my teeth are broke
and purple.
The lyrics are garbled
and tongue-spoke.
Guttural curses
cling to my head,
both hands holding
back the temples
of past myths,
lies and discontents.

Marriage of heaven and earth -
strike down, down, down,
that I may shut you up.

Does he not realize
That he dies in front of my eyes
Every time he lies..?

He may as well wield a knife
And take his own life

For it is not the sword
But the deceitful word

That cuts the jugular and the femoral
in preparation for his funeral..

It is a permanent stain
His apology is in vain

For there is no return from verbal death
After he’s uttered his last lying breath.

Que la brisa haga infinita tu voz
como el canto del pinzón real.
Que alegren todas las mañanas
tu rostro al despertar
en el que me hablas de esa manera
alterando mi nervio radial.

Se desliza por mi tímpano
hasta mi vena femoral.
Qué gusto tiene tu voz,
qué bien se acopla en mi paladar.
Huelen tan bien tus palabras
que duele mi seno frontal.

what likes most i                              ?
the skinny river rolling 'round my hips
so strength filled fingers grasping grips
a clear concise conscious conscience "no"ed
ephemeral femoral pounding blood stream
fluster me a disease and cure the agile licks
eroding the
                         su
                               d




                                           d
                                                   e

                    n


plummet into the a cool abyss drenching colossal shade pool
waiting at the oral conclusion of a tiny damp sliver in the quick of my soul

            prickle me blushing stream. i'll caress the veins waiting for
                the stammer of my hands. and i'll pluck your spine to fill
               all
            the
                  effortless
        nothing

Blood pours from the wound.
The hounds snarl viciously at him. There are two of them.
Standing over him as his life drains from the hole newly torn in his outer thigh. The tooth is still lodged in his leg.
It is the only reason he is still conscious. The delicate ivory dagger is all that is keeping his femoral artery from emptying itself onto the dusty pine-needle covered ground.
He realizes his peril. His impending departure from this mortal plane instilling in him a new-found appreciation for the life he is about to lose. He feels regret.
He regrets walking into the forest at night alone. He regrets leaving his home in anger and he regrets the last words he spoke to his family.

He is sure this is the end. He has finally done it.

He grows increasingly desperate as moments from his past leap to the forefront of his awareness. Even as these awful beasts circle closer his mind is filled with images unrelated to his current predicament.
But perhaps not so unrelated as it was these blunders that each led him a step closer to this fateful nights error. His attention turns back to the beasts. Each vying to be the first to indulge itself on the flesh of this foolish over-evolved hominid squirming in front of them. But the creatures are no longer what he fears. He can feel the blood draining from his wound. He feels the wetness and the growing chill.
He feels the absence of his future.

He pleads with God to give him one last chance.

One last chance to make something of the life which he has treated with such ungrateful flippancy.
One last chance to keep the spirits of his parents from breaking under the weight of losing their child.
One last chance to find the love he knew he’d never find again.
One last chance to find the courage to create some meaning for himself.
One last chance to die with some small amount of peace in his heart.

The oak died
in the last

baseball year,
thick dollars of rot

splitting the crook
with a winter step.

I had given up
on Kelly from

Corner Drive,
old enough now

to let go of
the desire in

her Lions
nightshirt.

**** moved in
next door, saving

me from
mother's cancer.

The sun was a
gnaw, I lived by

nightfall, engaged
to the femoral

moon. ****
played drums,

his father
chain smoked, and

I hunted the changing
braid that filled

the wooden air.
It was another way

to be, exile from
the sick-house,

eating the words
of books,

replacing
the things I had

been denied.
The sick oak lay

like a vacancy
in the center of the

yard, too far gone
even for firewood,

black ailerons
down in the wetness

of the mantle.
Lord,

I could barely
even look at it.

The girls in my stories love to eat each other.
In one, Red Riding Hood lies back on her cloak
with her spooled ringlets falling all around her as
shiny and intimate and obscene as anything.
The Wolf says, "I'll have the heart last."
Red says, "Good, I've wrapped it as a present in
skin, fat, and ribs and I've been saving it just for you."
The Wolf kisses up to her femoral artery where there pulses
live communion and laps her way into carnivorous heaven.
In another, there are two characters
who don't share our names but you're not stupid.
They fly cranes across balconies
with ink-smudged messages folded on the inner planes,
the hearts and brains of paper.
The words are meaningless; the game is to divine intent.
When they talk, phones fall awkwardly from their mouths
and they pray to God the other knows how to unwrap them.
The one who doesn't share your name cuts
through the skin and fat and ribs of sound
and savors one fleeting drink from the well of me.
You choke on it, then swallow, and then we love each other again
with the biting curiosity of strangers.

My therapy is chemical,
I go for weekly sessions.
My artery is femoral,
the site of my injection.

The venom attacks the mitosis
of my splitting cell.
Dyspepsia takes over
like a spinning carousel.

As musings they start....
Weapons of mass decay encased in whispers and smiles by incubi and succubi for an all encompassing neural maim,
Through hopes and dreams they slither,
Leaving grief, filth, pain, and spirit rending sorrow in their wake,
Putrid composers of the great symphonies of betrayal, and sonatas of aspirations razed,
Veins of femoral or carotid are ruptured to induce the swan song of our shells,
But the vein cerebral bleeds you until from love birds you hear only funeral hyms,
For the blood upon the sword is witnessed by all,
But shall never outweigh the blood of our souls staining the soil in our minds,
As is spoken, such is rendered....
Saieth the petty whisper.