Cloudless confusion blows through the dead mind's sky
All eyes envying the ever nearing end of time.
This constantly reccuring thread.
This secret sentence meant to reinvent this magic.
It is a morbid mirage.
Murdered marriage
A massacre, unmentionable.  
Mesmerizing sobriety,
Majestically marauding science.  
Mindless moon born madness.
Inner sinner-inner sanctum.
Sheltering some malevolent Mysterium.
This thoughtless thirst for sanctity.
The shapeless shadow wisps which whisper.
Shock of spewing blood against a backdrop of white.
A keenly edged knife ******* grins into milky skin stretched tight.
The shifty sorrow of quick fading light
Deep down dig of fright
Straining: fighting with the last vestiges vanquished
The swallow of sentience, this last candle scarcely alight.
Burial romance.
This slow turned page.
Slow revelation of cumulative age.
Empty vessel volition withering onstage.
Don't weep this ****** burned
This solace we've earned
Good sense long past spurned.
Sadistic disaster our honey and sugar.
Outlined by the end
The smile of evil men.
Sad string stung, star struck spirit spun.
The voice of Us long undone.
Screaming chorus Kingdom come.
Seance chorus all wanting some.
This cracked Kingdom collapses
Each moment which passes
One last squandered synapse and then all falls quiet... at long last.
My lunar goddess
Lunatic
******
Murderess that got it

I had horrible dreams of her last night

of a Mother red haired with soft hands and fine skin that demand

her two boys' respect or the cunning not to be caught in contempt

of her as she doesn't mind burying her head in the sand

if they kiss her before she slips under her dune comforter and sleeps

for a selfish safe-keeping with a smile but is the kind of lady

who pins her lip corners on her cork board cheeks daily like a cast list

while she cooks turkey for all cleaning the wishbones before her plate

to use as window-sill ornaments until her kids come home so they might fly

or at least not to waste the magic on herself but they hide blocks away

in the parking lot shadow of the auto-repair shop's spinning sign

from the Sun and sky

Who are these people at the bridge to meet me? They are the villagers----
The rector, the midwife, the sexton, the agent for bees.
In my sleeveless summery dress I have no protection,
And they are all gloved and covered, why did nobody tell me?
They are smiling and taking out veils tacked to ancient hats.

I am **** as a chicken neck, does nobody love me?
Yes, here is the secretary of bees with her white shop smock,
Buttoning the cuffs at my wrists and the slit from my neck to my knees.
Now I am milkweed silk, the bees will not notice.
They will not smell my fear, my fear, my fear.

Which is the rector now, is it that man in black?
Which is the midwife, is that her blue coat?
Everybody is nodding a square black head, they are knights in visors,
Breastplates of cheesecloth knotted under the armpits.
Their smiles and their voces are changing. I am led through a beanfield.

Strips of tinfoil winking like people,
Feather dusters fanning their hands in a sea of bean flowers,
Creamy bean flowers with black eyes and leaves like bored hearts.
Is it blood clots the tendrils are dragging up that string?
No, no, it is scarlet flowers that will one day be edible.

Now they are giving me a fashionable white straw Italian hat
And a black veil that molds to my face, they are making me one of them.
They are leading me to the shorn grove, the circle of hives.
Is it the hawthorn that smells so sick?
The barren body of hawthon, etherizing its children.

Is it some operation that is taking place?
It is the surgeon my neighbors are waiting for,
This apparition in a green helmet,
Shining gloves and white suit.
Is it the butcher, the grocer, the postman, someone I know?

I cannot run, I am rooted, and the gorse hurts me
With its yellow purses, its spiky armory.
I could not run without having to run forever.
The white hive is snug as a ******,
Sealing off her brood cells, her honey, and quietly humming.

Smoke rolls and scarves in the grove.
The mind of the hive thinks this is the end of everything.
Here they come, the outriders, on their hysterical elastics.
If I stand very still, they will think I am cow-parsley,
A gullible head untouched by their animosity,

Not even nodding, a personage in a hedgerow.
The villagers open the chambers, they are hunting the queen.
Is she hiding, is she eating honey? She is very clever.
She is old, old, old, she must live another year, and she knows it.
While in their fingerjoint cells the new virgins

Dream of a duel they will win inevitably,
A curtain of wax dividing them from the bride flight,
The upflight of the murderess into a heaven that loves her.
The villagers are moving the virgins, there will be no killing.
The old queen does not show herself, is she so ungrateful?

I am exhausted, I am exhausted ----
Pillar of white in a blackout of knives.
I am the magician's girl who does not flinch.
The villagers are untying their disguises, they are shaking hands.
Whose is that long white box in the grove, what have they accomplished, why am I cold.

Hair as black as nightshade’s bloom
Eyes cold sapphires set in a face of stone
Skin, milky pale, cheeks diamond white,
Heart as dark as darkest night


Words of honey laced with hemlock
Venom so sweet but alas so deadly
Beautiful rose, poisonous thorns
The devil with hidden horns

Bloodied hand, murdered dreams
She dares lay sleep to sleep
Slashed hearts, tattered souls
Broken is the most sacred of vows

Never to sleep, never to rest
Never to drift off in peace
For thou hast put to death
Thine sleep
Thou shalt not know oblivion’s deep

And if you sink beneath slumber’s waves
Then hell awaits there-in
To haunt and torture
To hack as you stray
Into that world each day


In sleep your dreams will haunt and chase
A-wandering you’ll try to run away
Demons of Hades devils of Seth
Haunt and torture Lady Macbeth

So arise ye furies avengers of blood
And hasten to punish this sin
For the ****** of sleep
The killing of a king
Hades fire upon their souls shall bring

1.

Like a white snowdrop in the spring
From child to girl I grew,
And thought no thought, and heard no word
That was not pure and true.

2.

And when I came to seventeen,
And life was fair and free,
A suitor, by my father's leave,
Was brought one day to me.

3.

“Make me the happiest man on earth,”
He whispered soft and low.
My mother told me it was right
I was too young to know.

4.

And then they twined my bridal wreath
And placed it on my brow.
It seems like fifty years ago —
And I am twenty now.

5.

My star, that barely rose, is set;
My day of hope is done —
My woman's life of love and joy —
Ere it has scarce begun.

6.

Hourly I die — I do not live —
Though still so young and strong.
No dumb brute from his brother brutes
Endures such wanton wrong.

7.

A smouldering shame consumes me now —
It poisons all my peace;
An inward torment of reproach
That never more will cease.

8.

O how my spirit shrinks and sinks
Ere yet the light is gone!
What creeping terrors chill my blood
As each black night draws on!

9.

I lay me down upon my bed,
A prisoner on the rack,
And suffer dumbly, as I must,
Till the kind day comes back.

10.

Listening from heavy hour to hour
To hear the church- clock toll —
A guiltless ******* in flesh,
A murderess in soul.

11.

Those church- bells chimed the marriage chimes
When he was wed to me,
And they must knell a funeral knell
Ere I again am free.

12.

I did not hate him then; in faith
I vowed the vow “I will;”
Were I his mate, and not his slave,
I could perform it still.

13.

But, crushed in these relentless bonds
I blindly helped to tie,
With one way only for escape,
I pray that he may die.

14.

O to possess myself once more,
Myself so stained and maimed!
O to make pure these shuddering limbs
That loveless lust has shamed!

15.

But beauty cannot be restored
Where such a blight has been,
And all the rivers in the world
Can never wash me clean.

16.

I go to church; I go to court;
No breath of scandal flaws
The lustre of my fair repute;
For I obey the laws.

17.

My ragged sister of the street,
Marked for the world's disgrace,
Scarce dares to lift her sinful eyes
To the great lady's face.

18.

She hides in shadows as I pass —
On me the sunbeams shine;
Yet, in the sight of God, her stain
May be less black than mine.

19.

Maybe she gave her all for love,
And did not count the cost;
If so, her crown of womanhood
Was not ignobly lost.

20.

Maybe she wears those wretched rags,
And starves from door to door,
To keep her body for her own
Since it may love no more.

21.

If so, in spite of church and law,
She is more pure than I;
The latchet of those broken shoes
I am not fit to tie.

22.

That hungry baby at her breast —
Sign of her fallen state —
Nature, who would but mock at mine,
Has made legitimate.

23.

Poor little “love- child” — spurned and scorned,
Whom church and law disown,
Thou hadst thy birthright when the seed
Of thy small life was sown.

24.

O Nature, give no child to me,
Whom Love must ne'er embrace!
Thou knowest I could not bear to look
On its reproachful face.

Murderer
they called me
Murderess...

to take a life
into my pale,
sculptured hands

to mix bone
and blood
into a thick
paste

to shatter the heart
of a mother, herself
reaching into the
abyss in fear of

nothingness.

I did not tremble
from top to toe

my back arched, catlike
sensing danger

where there was only
love, taken from me

beaten, burnt, corrupted
until only this shell

remained.

I take God into account,
hold him to his word,
beg him to remember
that night when I was

six

when heaven and hell
mixed as my mouth
filled with sweat
and blood

the taste of fear
caressing my lips

murderous,

the shadow on the wall,
the whistle of wind
through long hair

I take, plunder, delve
into fields of red
Poppy's

remberence

dear God,
remember me

the wretched shackles that bound my wrists clanged together dreadfully as I shook
they themselves being the bindings between my innocence and the gallows patiently awaiting me

the voyeurs shout-
"murderess, o foul murderess!
burn eternally, you foul murderess!"

I am numb to these accusations,
as I am numb to the fear of death

the benevolent masses, the enemies that seek my execution,
these are not evil spirits
and so,
the guilty verdict that once grated against my skin now feels as soft and gentle as the clouds that, too, await me

I have retired the melancholy
I resolve myself to die with the dignity and gentleness that I had conducted myself with from the moment I was given life

I resolve to hold onto the sweetness and maternity that I showed that sweet boy,
that I had used to hold him for the first time

my hands, nothing but affectionate to that boy, my boy
the same hands that loved and cared for him from his very conception,
these are the hands they convict

these hands were supposedly the weapon that choked the life out of that sweet fawn, that I had loved so dearly

and so, these are the hands that are held accountable
bound behind my back, wrapped together tightly

these are the hands of love that have been convicted

I am Sarah Malcolm -
yes, the one they call the Irish Laundress
and the jury found me guilty of the murders
(the Infamous Murderess)
of Mrs Lydia Duncomb,
Mrs Harrison and the servant Ann Price
in Mrs Lydia’s chamber
at the Inns of Court in the Temple;
and the jury only needed 15 minutes

and there was disbelief when I admitted to robbery
but not ******
and there was disgust
when I said the blood on my clothing was my own menstrual blood
and not the blood of Ann Price:
I had broken a taboo in talking of menstrual blood
for, as they say,
only loose and the not so virtuous women speak that way

and of course even after the judgement
I have been deemed even more guilty
for I am of a different Communion
of the Catholic faith, not Anglican -
just as the Ordinary, James Guthrie described me
in instructing me here at Newgate on the Christian faith;
and I have earned the name now of many
as the evil, barbaric, and stubborn woman

And now Mr Hogarth sketches and paints
that you might have a view of me;
and the appointed date is 7 March 1733
when I will be executed...
and these lines I add to the picture
that you might remember me

I've seen your hand held murderess
Making note of its cool, sleek body,
Twisting and turning
Around your fingers,
Leech like.

Producing when in need of reassurance,
Its silent but deadly
At the best of times.

A strange puppet it does form;
For my entertainment
Or yours?

I wait, dumb, for the sudden ****,
I'll wait
But eventually she'll slip
From your drenched palm.

Snake tounges rattled and hissed words of poison mechanically,
With green-eyed monsters lurking beneath their skin,
Circling the rumours of suspicion onto those of white blood,
Like a frightened rabbit in deaths doorway to car headlights fell.
The slithering tale encapsulating innocent yet friendly ears,
Smearing their venom amongst those of lowered fighters hands,
Trickling down the innocent white hart's hands,
As though regarding herself as this murderess.

Flight of fear, fighting the dark, losing, chocking, drowning,
Yet tales of talk were not in vain, but yet they failed once again,
Smearing that of lies over white walls, black onto red,
Trapping the rabbit in the snare, as though to **** it in the shell.
My friend, would you tell the old lie? To children so high,
To fall so low, by that of snakes and their hungry green-eyes.

My Dearest Capulet,

As I write you in these waning hours
(The number of my sunrises and sunsets finite,
Easily counted upon either hand)
I do so resigned to the certainty
That this missive shall remain unanswered,
Most likely forever unread--but tell me, dear lady
To whom else would I address this correspondence,
For who else is more likely to understand
That love and hate are not opposite poles,
But are as the hissing, slathering jaws
Of that dreadful two-headed snake,
Which, if not separated by a prudent interval,
Will consume the other and then itself.
I have lived and learned this quite well
(At the hands of teachers and other lesser men)
And pondered other questions of fatality and fidelity,
Surmising that rings of gold and fetters of iron
Are neither necessary nor sufficient.

If I have not come to peace with my fortune, distant soul mate,
I have at least procured a measure of acquiescence,
For I have known love and hate and death,
Known them thoroughly enough to comprehend
That they are not wholly separate entities,
And that they will often appear at one’s door
Wearing the formal attire of one of the others.
I have burned, brightly if not in illumination,
And now I am spent, a charred celestial body
Rotating ever more slowly
Until a final, silent, unobserved obsolescence,
For after we have loved profoundly if not well,
What is left to us but the sepulcher?

I remain faithfully yours,

Oh no,
it was not of the ordinary kind.
It was not the ****** ****,
to leave a puddle in the bath.
It was not reckless, it was not thoughtless.
It was a **** of no other kind.

Oh when I think of it
and when I hear the crows
hovering above in the sound of the bell.
That rusty bell, when the sun is gone,
together with the crows,
on time they all sing,
precise as the ****.

Oh no,
it wasn't a bullet, shot in shake and fear,
it wasn't a sloppy slip, one fast and quick.
It was a **** foresighted and long before known.
It was silent, yet loud and felt.
A type of ******,
when a queen murders a king.

A type of killer she was,
who put poison in the chunk of bread
in the sight of the murdered.
That food was sweeter than life,
when eaten from the fingertips of the sensational murderess.
It was swallowed with joy,
yet known it is poison.

Simple, when looked from far,
venom she whispered and sipped,
from the killer red dry lips,
that ate away the skin.
Not a spot when on the spotlight,
she is a predator of no other kind;
The killer, claws the prey,
with the most gentle of touch.

It was not a moment, a blink of some day,
it was over and over,
every gasp, every second of every day.
It was not a knife to the back,
it was clean and open - wound to the front;
Facing her gaze,
oh, she pierced it right in the heart.
It was the sharpest of blades, over and over again...
As they say,
there are few swords that cut so deep,
as the blade of unrequited love.

As I walk now in the sun's light of noon
and remember the days,
I still feel the warmth of air passing in my open heart;
I still taste the blood of my already fallen skin.
I writhe a little...
Then I softly grin,
from cheekbone to chin -
I think of the time when you murdered me.

i can't
fuvking
breathe
because of you
you saved my life
and now you'll be the reason
i end it

THAT IMBECILE DRUNK
THAT FILTHY MURDERESS

THE ***** THAT LITTERS AND FOULS THE EARTH
THE ***** THAT LITTERS AND SOILS

BY BREEDING
ILLEGITIMATE CHILD

THE ***** THAT GLITTERS WITH FALSE PROMISE
FALSE PRIDE

FALSE
GOLD

WORTHLESSNESS

SHE LIED

HER SICKNESS

HER PROGENY

HER MADNESS

SENILITY

HER ROTTEN TEETH

DECAY HER MIND

HER PAIN SHE EXTENDS

AS HER DAYS EBB AWAY

HER PAIN SHE EXTENDS

'TILL HER DYING DAY

Hidden within these lies beneath her disguise,
An enemy within drenched in sin for my demise,

The harum haunting and surrounding as corrupt spies,
Lingering whispering and swarming deceit covered my sanity hypnotized,

Dropping below the nightly sea unable to breathe I'm oxidized,
Heart full of lead and feeling dead, sinking my spirit with heavy bereaved anvils fossilized,

She gifted me this weight,
She took what I could relate,
Stole my breathe so I wouldn't escape,
Held me down till it was too late,
Smirking at my burnt coffin case,
Spreading my ashes upon the landscape,

This murderess conceived every possible fate,

Her wickedness to deception was immensely great,

As she mortified others to regulate,
Her plan worked, she's after checkmate,

Death by assumption as her thrusts clumping,
Density of her maleficent empty soul around was dumping,
No sound I'm everywhere but nowhere to be found, no blood pumping,

This murderess with clandestine traits concealed my shell within her hell,
Her wickedness laughs about my heart no longer thumping,

No one is confronting her becoming this murderess,
Everyone emitting to her false image, wickedness convinced everyone the story of me jumping.

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

Basically I'm saying, babe, you're hot.  You know its funny, I adore Shakespeare but i could not handle writing like him. All proper and British and modern... I'm too old fashioned for his tastes.

Let's think about it. Shakespeare was a progressive of his days; making words, analogies, that are timeless to this day.

What am I using?

Old tricks of the old writers to quell my taste for old art. Gods knows I describe everything as if I were Dickens, all elongated and profoundly bloated in the most beautiful and adoring way.

But back to where I was. You.

This sonnet is for you. I did promise one this night, did I not? In my head I did, at least. Oh dear, this'll be a surprise in the morning. But at least it is a surprise just for you.

I at least hinted of a sonnet, a sonnet for you, telling of you and our love and how it makes me feel. So here we must go.

You are the moonshine to my midnight, the angel to my demons.

Too much? I dare say, it must be, you have simply gone giddy with giggles. Perhaps a different route should be approached.

If I were a murderess, which in all heart-related actuality I am, I will give this fair promise that in all my running around and cutting out hearts, that yours will simply be those one I keep closest to mine.

Alas, too dark? Oh, my love, but there must be some way to express my doting! Be in not in a dark sonnet, or an adoring sonnet, perhaps a comedic one?

There were two things I was certain of. One, that he was a vampire, and two, that I was irrevocably attracted to him.

Oh, perhaps too comedic. Perhaps too unkind. Perhaps a bit too much paraphrasing. But I digress. Anything I can do to please you, my dearest one? Anyway I can express how I feel without making you laugh, or giggle, or simply chuckle at me?

It cannot be as simple, as you say. It cannot be as easy as holding you close and whispering in your ear how much I love you. Can it?

Well I promise, then, that I will spend my nights whispering towards you my affections, and holding you tight until you can stand my embrace no more. Will that suffice?

Oh, I love you.

And I suppose that's the best way to put it.

At times, the dark comes quicker
As if my mind gone weaker
As if my soul was split into two me
Similar to the ying and the yang
The Me and the Mean
The bright side and the dark side
I feel an intruder piercing my soul in the inside
I feel this part growing , getting stronger everyday
Spreading negative wave

The Me symbolize my reason of living
The dreams that I am after
The desire of beeing a father
The Mean on the other hand is like that creature surrounded by that antihalo feeling
Giving power to my fears , my hate
Eating all I have of hope, misguiding my fate
The Me became the prey , leaving The Mean  the place of deadly predator
It's like picturing the beauty of spring gobbled up by the sadness of winter

But The Me isn't giving up
I'm not giving up in the search of my true identity
The Murderess war of the two Me
The winner will decide where lies my destiny.

It feels strange with you not here
not quite right,
the room is still,
but for the sound of little ones, playing, squeals of delight,
it's hot,
an empty space & for some reason I am not at ease ......
Then they are gone 1 2 & 3 toddlers, gratefully to be alone.
then, my mother on the phone,
her voice calm but direct, "Mello is missing -
what ?
nothing is clear, my heads in a whirl, what did she mean ? how could this be ?

brother, rail staff, pharmacist, painter all searching but no sightings anywhere - she has gone. 
 Ok, I am on my way !

Brian Bridgette, Bootle, blind fear - Mello's missing - I need her here
I cannot breath, heart is pounding, a silent fog wraps itself around me,
home - I must get home

panic I become frantic, hot, traffic, car, stay calm but I am dizzy,
she'll be ok was all my friend could say.
sick to my pit, I stutter and stammer, my mind is a soup,
........ please lets not delay

midday & eventually home, I open the door, the sticky air a blanket of suffocating heat, "Mello!" I cry, MellOOOOOO, across & above the blue empty sky
nothing, no wild shaggy beast to greet me, stillness, Mum, friend, chatter, I feel sick, irritable, anxious, its true, where is my Mello ? I so love you ......

a few feet away, just over the fence a train draws into the station, the screech of heavy brakes, its murderess horn sounds twice as this metal machine slowly comes to a halt. Silence, its not reached the station.
My mother is chatting, they are blissfully unaware.
"That was Mello" I muttered to myself, that was Mello ......... I felt,
but no one was listening, no one had heard. We went into the house .......
"No, I don't want tea!"

Into the garden in search of clues, the compost is high the wall low, no genius to work out how she escaped,
stolen or did she run ? why had she gone ? after a cat or a bird or just for some fun.

Phone, Mike, Mello's gone ! -
......... what will I do, I cannot bare to consider life without you,
Your perfect my friend, my little girl,  so very wise, too young to be taken, my soul mate my rock, you gave nothing but pleasure, please return to me safe & unbroken.

My ringtone sounds,  "is that ......... ? there has been an incident"
A dog, white, on the track, can you come ?
Tears frozen round my heart, in shock & disbelief, oh no you've been taken
YES, a railway official, orange suit, stands waiting, he carries your carcass, she's heavy with sweat, he lays her at my feet, please leave me alone.....
I fall at her side & hug my friend, still warm she lye's silent & still, beneath the roots of the old copper beech, in the dirt, I cry, not believing but breathing.
Lifeless my best mate is slipping away,  

Why, oh why???? ...... did I abandon you on the 10th July ?
RIP Mello x

I sat on the square of carpet and screamed
very quietly to myself.

I, the boy who
cried
melancholy.

I, the man who
watches his life
through his eyes.

I, the cruel ship that
glazes the waters of
a harsh music.

I, the silly hair that
obscures the face of
a murderess.

I, fit only for sleep
in the white palm
of an arthritic hand.

I, the child counting
backward on an abandoned
island.

I, glass-colored
and triangular like
the start of space.

I, the single ******
that begs for
a just spark.

I, the skin of glue
in a sweating
photograph.

I, the man selling
VHS players for
mega-discounts.

I, who clasped your
hand when you were
so very small.

I, an errant breath
in the postbox before
the empty Jones house.

I, keen on eating the
brick and mortar
beneath me.

I, who shall never
touch his face,
not even the one time.

I, in the midst of heat
and silence without
a single syllable of wet.

I, with a hatred for
your searching fingers
sticky-sweet.

I, sitting behind
long after the film
dies of exhaustion.

I, crayon and
8.5 by 11 inch paper
Valentines for violent boys.

I, second man,
forgotten man,
to my own movie.

I, grinning through
the lame as the
stitching wears.

I, strategic misery
on a tempest moon:
contemplating contemplating.

I, the laughing door
with a struggling ****,
and no keyhole.

I, who commits
suicide every Tuesday,
Thursday, and Sunday.

I, with cigar boxes
filled with all the tiny,
grandmotherish pieces of ****.

I, the knot that slips
off the head of a lonely
purpled finger.

I, and my
cloverfields,
and my rust.

I, with my dreams
about Japanese furniture
and magic, geometric roads.

I, dancing to a song
I cannot hear that issues
from a nonexistent room.

I stood and walked outside.

Mary had a little lamb
she pushed it under a lorry
what she really wanted was a Barbie doll and
for the lamb she was not sorry.
Action man who had a tan because he'd been in Afghanistan was upset by this and would not give to his true love a kiss,
she blamed it on his battle fatigue much less than post traumatic stress but all the same she knew he knew her game.
She was a murderess in a cotton dress,he was a soldier of the crown and his only thought as he walked away was,
someone should put her down.

Angela Lansbury has perished after living for nearly ninety-seven years.
In 1948, she starred in "State Of The Union" and "The Three Musketeers".
When she starred as a murderess in "Please ****** Me!", her co-star was Raymond Burr.
She is best known for starring in "******, She Wrote" and people will always remember her.
She starred in "Death On The Nile", "Lace" and "The Mirror Crack'd".
Angela became famous because talent wasn't something she lacked.
Many will remember her as "Jessica Fletcher" which was a role that she portrayed for many years.
Angela is dead and when her friends and family attend her funeral, they will grieve and shed tears.

Wanting more and more
Got me here, where

All I can see is deep red blood
Splashed on pure white snow

A vague sense of guilt,
Sudden revelation:

I did this! I caused this wreckage
I am to blame. I am the Murderess.

It grows late tonight.
Nothing much going

All I want to do is get out and
Splash the walls, paint the town

red

By: David W. Clare

Her Korean Dagger eyes, led me astray that otherwise sanguine night at the...

Going-out-of-business bankrupt sushi bar!
 
By far the nastiest *** I ever had; I was glad until she cut my head off and puked down my neck…

Oriental ladies are peculiar that a way...

She was the succubus or the seductress or perhaps the demure murderess…

Who knows?

All I know: she was the temptress; the fire-wild waitress in a Seoul sushi bar

 I was on visa overstay; drunk almost every night and day

Akin to a spastic kid in a candy shop!

We met in the ladies room; smashed into each other like a pair of rusted nails!

Her pantyhose ripped open like cobwebs in a raging windstorm…

We sloppily kissed after she slapped my face!

Next thing I know; she stole my wallet!

Then I awoke; the joint closed down, the dark roused me up…

I was glad she ran off with the boss…

Now, I can go back to my guest house room and sleep it off!

© In perpetuity all rights reserved
℗ FilmNoirWorks

I'll attach my soul to yours whether you want it or not
We'll be soulmates in this life and beyond
My love is such a bitter seed
It festers and spoils itself into a toxic ****
If you could want me an eighth as much as I want you I'll be content
The time of sunshine and rainbows
Came and went

Happiness is for winners
I'm just a ***** sinner
A hopeless dream
Undone at the seams
But I'll stitch you to my blackened heart
I'll always be unclean
You know you love the way I scream
And babe we'll be forever
Our tie can't ever be severed
No not even death could cut us apart

It's cold inside my soul
Empty hollow mess
It rained in my head
And snowed inside my chest

But my heart still beats
An icy drum
As your fingers linger idly
On my aching skin
I want you
so bad it hurts
You say you love me
The lie seeps in

Destruction and decay
All that's left for me to give
Daring you to stay
Hoping that you live

There were so many before you
I hope that you'll be my last
They all ran from my crazy
But they kept coming back

There's just something about me
That makes them all wanna stay and leave
I'll make you feel real good but then I'll make you feel real bad
Here's a warning
When I beg you not to go
You'd better not listen to me

I'm the harlot in that story
You know the good book don't tell lies
I am what it says that I am
And I've lived so many lives
Jezebel they call me
A murderess, a *****
I'll destroy you from the inside
And I'll leave you sore
I'll take everything you've got to give
And then I'll take some more

I am not Sylvia but I know sadness
sometimes I can taste it, still on my tongue
that omnipresent lump in my throat
the murderess in love, oscillating to the music
of speechless ignominies
tastes can impale you, slicing knives acting
as tonsils
knowing sadness, I know her
and of course, after all this time,
she must know me, too

-c.j.

My eyes are blue.
Black and blue.
My skin is pale white with freckles.
Freckles of blood spatter that reached my face.
The red and blue go really well together.
Maybe I should redye my hair red.
Red like the blood that once belonged to someone of importance.
It was his fault he came onto me.
So I took my knife and I taught him a lesson.
1: don’t take what isn’t yours
2: say please and thank you
3: no means no
4: hands to yourself
5: if you don’t fix your mistake you die.
He died. I had to teach him over and over again.
10 for each lesson. Just so it really stuck with him.
Hopefully he received the message if not the police will find all my hidden clues. And if I’m lucky they’ll find me. I’ll tell them everything.
Like the good little girl my daddy raised me to be.
Smile and widen your eyes and tilt your head and speak soft and sweet.
Be who they want you to be during the day, so you can be who you want to be at night.
You can be the murderess you were meant to become. Or you can just blow off some steam. But don’t leave a mess now or you’ll definitely get caught. But you can’t leave nothing behind so leave them something to work with.
You’re the riddle they’re trying to figure out so make the riddle worth understanding.
My riddle is complicated because I want it to be. Because I was born to be complicated.
Nothing can stop me if I put my mind to it.
So sleep tight knowing everything’s going to be safe.
If only he had followed the rules my eyes would just be blue and my skin would just be a pale white with natural freckles not blood speckles.
But he tried to take a part of me that took so long for me to recover and I couldn’t let him get away with what he’d done.
So all the bloods on him.
He chose this path.
I just helped end it.

Pushed to the edges of the devil's fauceted design,

Relentlessly pushing me to be tormented till I'm realigned,

Every bad choice bestowed by mind control in the murderess who I'd confide,

Nothing feels right, I've lost my sight, downwards plight to the end I've declined,

Her deceit cut out my feet to stumble on stubbled meat at her level to greet, as she cheats to stomp my heart with cleats,

She smirked while her bellowing heart flirts with templating quirks to lure frenemies in her skirt, heartlessness filled with her venomous heart as my new nemesis,

The discard with no regard has my soul charred, soullessness with her selflessness I'm locked in and barred,
Protecting the weak who look to me and seek me as their guard,
she's fast to exploit the past rubbing distasteful distress trapped in her mindful junkyard,

The end begins within as the nightmare scares except those who pretend,
My hand was lent and bent as she killed to be thrilled by those hands in contempt,

Deaths breath proved dooms gloom so rude to exclude an angelic relic of the hearts far apart,
pushed and ambushed, I crumble by her rumble of a deeply creepy leaping within the soul by sin to lose control,

The Interminable Agony pushed me to be a phantom,
A lost spirit cursed to walked this earth forever abandoned,
The Suffering by clandestine infusion to hell, I'm endlessly fashioned to be saddened.

Who I think I am
Is a detestable
Vindictive
Obnoxious woman
As cold as a white blizzard
Raging on to the roughest mountains
I think I am the murderess
Sheathed in the dark forest
Jolting the tides of its pond
I think I am the uncaring father
Sinning in secret alleys
The most sadistic of killers
Calloused as a fist
Cut as sharp as a jewel

But
Who I really am
Is a confused
Fragile
Indecisive porcelain doll
As breakable as a shattered wine glass
On a wine-stained marble floor
I am the delicate blossom
Of a thorny bush
I am like a pond
Still but shaken
Waiting to show the world around me
That there are crystal shells under the murky water
I am not an insatiable destructive brat
But the scattered flowers of a glass vase
That was shattered by the brat