Post by hybrid on Dec 18, 2010 19:23:10 GMT -5
So empty.
"Five... four..."
Eyes heavy.
"Three... two..."
Not again. Not again.
"One..."
Here we go.
What does it take to soak up the blood of a million men? What kind of foe can eat a head as if it were a lamb? How do you kill that which is already dead? Away with the wedding, all glamorous. So fragile. So violent instead. Dreams of bodies burning like wood. And all you did was stand there, all empty, all frozen. So berserk. Your eyes tried to tell you how things were; popping and rolling, but you had none. And then came the men with all weapons drawn. And then I watched you flinch for a moment, just as your body turned from black to orange. Like a thrilling cancer, all dynamic and unglued. The bullets penetrated your face, right on cue. And from that orange, you turned red; a thick, golden rouge. Your body fell to the floor, and your limbs flew. High in the air, cut in the direction of a ceiling fan. And the church members turned to God, praying on their knees, to save them from something worse than a disease. But instead of saving the world that day, he laughed like a bitch, and smoked weed, dangling it like hay.
I stared down at you, held your hand, and breathed in. Your dying words were but a whisper, but clear as the light forming in your eyes. So crisp like a breeze, so soft like silk. A memory from a dream. A shadow of vengeance. And as the blood spilt, and as the day grew dark, you spoke so calmly, banal, and uncut.
“Merry Christmas, son.”
The flames were as tall as statues of glorious Gods. And the smoke was toxic, and blinding like fog. The cries were in vein, followed by gunshots. And the elderly with their children. The pregnant before the disabled. The genuine. The poetic. The obese and anorexic. No one was safe on that day as dusk transcended dawn. And not even my tears could move this along.
I stared long and hard at the father I knew. The bride and groom. And world stalked, confronted, and tarnished. A place of the divine, spiralled down into the vanquished abyss. So fierce, so trapped, surrounded by a crisis. They ran for the exits in numbers so great. And they ran with high hopes, not expecting this fate. An ambush at dawn. As the clock struck and gonged. Knives pierced the flesh as the raging sirens screeched loudly from afar. The echoing of alarms was like a sweet, sweet song.
Then they left in a hurry, firing off one last round. Leaving me alone, trapped and cold. So much blood. Bodies. And fire stretched around. So, I fell to the floor, hoping for the end. I stabbed myself in the neck with my father’s black ballpoint pen.
And my gore ran like ink, letting it fill the page. Exposing the truth how it was, not as a charade. A chapter was written as I fell to my side, closing my eyes, too afraid to see the light you saw before, as you looked up above, praying for something more. But like you before me, I drifted off into despair. Her soft, quiet whimpering was music to my ears. I drifted off into purgatory, gazing at her face; so fair and blush, with a silvery touch. Not at all tarnished by this coal-ridden Christmas. Faces mute with emotionless awe -- a wonder so putrid, so decrepit, so bare.
They came and they left, leaving the two of us all alone. Born in the bloody flames, bringing fourth Hell’s cynical ghosts. Satan’s inner-most fears, enriched by this sight. His ghost smiling with uncanny delight. Hell’s imagery, so unleashed, so real, so mesmerizing. And the idea of hate, overcome with contempt’s grinning frown. A smile so upside down. One eye, one suit, one mask fits all.
And then they came back, smoking a joint, looking at their work. So pleasing. So mightily artistic. So contemporary. So experimental. So abstract. Too divine for an exhibit. Too poor for a price. Too extreme for a museum. And too harsh for my sights.
They nodded together, the crackling fire acting as a grand applause. Then they turned in unison, bowed their heads and took off. All before shouting as a single voice, “Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.” Their laughter was evil, broken and wrong. So sociopathic, so psycho, so infamous words have no effect. They left again, smiling, holding hands like good friends.
They left as the fires of hell burnt around me. Christening me in blue, scorching my mind, forging my name. I watched that girl die, choking on her own blood. Drowning in her tears. Swallowing her sorrow. Her eyes were heavy, bloodshot and watered. The toxic wandered. And my life was altered.
Born in darkness. Consumed by vengeance. My holocaust. My drive for vengeance, elementary and problematic. They took me alive. And wrapped me in clothes, golden and black. So immortal.
Grown to a man without a face. Just a mage with a promise. To set free that girl’s heart. Deliver it from her fears. To set back a notion written so long ago. To relinquish this memory. To finalize this ordeal.
The story goes back a number of years. The year is 2010, and still no cure. The world has changed. But the dream has not. So, I bid you farewell.
And this story takes a sharp left and a right. Down the spiral again, where there is no light. Just a glowing moon, sparkling, ever-lasting erotica. Dangling. Without a voice to bring life to the lifeless.
A smile.
"Five... four..."
Eyes heavy.
"Three... two..."
Not again. Not again.
"One..."
Here we go.
What does it take to soak up the blood of a million men? What kind of foe can eat a head as if it were a lamb? How do you kill that which is already dead? Away with the wedding, all glamorous. So fragile. So violent instead. Dreams of bodies burning like wood. And all you did was stand there, all empty, all frozen. So berserk. Your eyes tried to tell you how things were; popping and rolling, but you had none. And then came the men with all weapons drawn. And then I watched you flinch for a moment, just as your body turned from black to orange. Like a thrilling cancer, all dynamic and unglued. The bullets penetrated your face, right on cue. And from that orange, you turned red; a thick, golden rouge. Your body fell to the floor, and your limbs flew. High in the air, cut in the direction of a ceiling fan. And the church members turned to God, praying on their knees, to save them from something worse than a disease. But instead of saving the world that day, he laughed like a bitch, and smoked weed, dangling it like hay.
I stared down at you, held your hand, and breathed in. Your dying words were but a whisper, but clear as the light forming in your eyes. So crisp like a breeze, so soft like silk. A memory from a dream. A shadow of vengeance. And as the blood spilt, and as the day grew dark, you spoke so calmly, banal, and uncut.
“Merry Christmas, son.”
The flames were as tall as statues of glorious Gods. And the smoke was toxic, and blinding like fog. The cries were in vein, followed by gunshots. And the elderly with their children. The pregnant before the disabled. The genuine. The poetic. The obese and anorexic. No one was safe on that day as dusk transcended dawn. And not even my tears could move this along.
I stared long and hard at the father I knew. The bride and groom. And world stalked, confronted, and tarnished. A place of the divine, spiralled down into the vanquished abyss. So fierce, so trapped, surrounded by a crisis. They ran for the exits in numbers so great. And they ran with high hopes, not expecting this fate. An ambush at dawn. As the clock struck and gonged. Knives pierced the flesh as the raging sirens screeched loudly from afar. The echoing of alarms was like a sweet, sweet song.
Then they left in a hurry, firing off one last round. Leaving me alone, trapped and cold. So much blood. Bodies. And fire stretched around. So, I fell to the floor, hoping for the end. I stabbed myself in the neck with my father’s black ballpoint pen.
And my gore ran like ink, letting it fill the page. Exposing the truth how it was, not as a charade. A chapter was written as I fell to my side, closing my eyes, too afraid to see the light you saw before, as you looked up above, praying for something more. But like you before me, I drifted off into despair. Her soft, quiet whimpering was music to my ears. I drifted off into purgatory, gazing at her face; so fair and blush, with a silvery touch. Not at all tarnished by this coal-ridden Christmas. Faces mute with emotionless awe -- a wonder so putrid, so decrepit, so bare.
They came and they left, leaving the two of us all alone. Born in the bloody flames, bringing fourth Hell’s cynical ghosts. Satan’s inner-most fears, enriched by this sight. His ghost smiling with uncanny delight. Hell’s imagery, so unleashed, so real, so mesmerizing. And the idea of hate, overcome with contempt’s grinning frown. A smile so upside down. One eye, one suit, one mask fits all.
And then they came back, smoking a joint, looking at their work. So pleasing. So mightily artistic. So contemporary. So experimental. So abstract. Too divine for an exhibit. Too poor for a price. Too extreme for a museum. And too harsh for my sights.
They nodded together, the crackling fire acting as a grand applause. Then they turned in unison, bowed their heads and took off. All before shouting as a single voice, “Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.” Their laughter was evil, broken and wrong. So sociopathic, so psycho, so infamous words have no effect. They left again, smiling, holding hands like good friends.
They left as the fires of hell burnt around me. Christening me in blue, scorching my mind, forging my name. I watched that girl die, choking on her own blood. Drowning in her tears. Swallowing her sorrow. Her eyes were heavy, bloodshot and watered. The toxic wandered. And my life was altered.
Born in darkness. Consumed by vengeance. My holocaust. My drive for vengeance, elementary and problematic. They took me alive. And wrapped me in clothes, golden and black. So immortal.
Grown to a man without a face. Just a mage with a promise. To set free that girl’s heart. Deliver it from her fears. To set back a notion written so long ago. To relinquish this memory. To finalize this ordeal.
The story goes back a number of years. The year is 2010, and still no cure. The world has changed. But the dream has not. So, I bid you farewell.
And this story takes a sharp left and a right. Down the spiral again, where there is no light. Just a glowing moon, sparkling, ever-lasting erotica. Dangling. Without a voice to bring life to the lifeless.
A smile.