Predatory Instincts

This viscous haze; pounding through every nerve, shaking the barriers of every earthly, cryogenic dream, each membrane cruely seduced and reshaped by a clogging insanity.
'You are hollow and disturbed' the only reply from the mirror. Echoing through my head. These are my terrors, every beating, living memory. Blinding, suffocating, I am frail, nothing but faith without religious reasoning. Would you hold me? Love me? Shake me until I am dead? You understand the creeping agony; You have felt my reptillian aches and primal carnality. Watching, we do nothing, apart from keep the needle in my hand and listen, to the dull sedation of the organic, rhythmitic pattering.

Submerge

I have been dragged to hell. The motions of this world pulse through me; warped, alien, surreal.
I know this place, it lays around me in a twisted familiarity and yet I have not been here before. Thrown into the darkness of my nightmares I am challenged, in turn, by snarling demons; Horror, Reconciliation, Guilt. Each infinite second slips away, analysed and replaced by its identical stranger. I am lost here, anchored to my insanity by a thousand years of questions, crushed by a million helixical thoughts only to feel the sudden disintegration of my body, the prescence of every microscopic symbiote. Trapped between a grain of memory and an incalculable expanse of existance. I crumple, morphed into a hollow shell, washed with the waves of my own conciousness, caught in their focus and ebbed quietly away from this void.

Play Dead- passage VIII

''Two-fifty for the hour, She's new, give Her a bit of encouragement and She'll... Behave.'' Three-Fingerd Marston had a rasping voice, it was always strained and uneasy on the ear, a result from years of heavy smoking and solvent abuse. He pointed, with the stump of his index finger, to a picture of a desperate looking, young red head.
''I'm not interested in buying any more of your rotting whores Marston.'' The dank hole of a bar was quiet, this pervert was used to the dancing, stale tobacco haze that lingered here; It stained His clothes, His skin, His teeth and gave His lank, charcoal hair a thicker layer of grime. ''What about this one?'' Marston turned the pages of His catalogue, ''She's a favourite, no track marks, yours for two-twenty if you use protection.'' I rememberd this girl, athletic, well-shaped, raven hair, lived a few doors down the road, until a few months ago. Marston put alot of work into acquiring this one.
I kept my voice low, ''I'm looking for someone in particular. You know the regulars at the truck stops? Perhaps they've seen her?' I passed him a couple of notes and a school girl's photo, a home address scribbled on the back, His eyes widened with greed, as if in a playground, and licked His lips. Marston always took well to bargaining.
''Who are you looking for?''
''My Wife.''

Broken Verse II

An innocent girl, thorn in her heart.
Is she sane? A moment passes,
her darkest place stood still.
She pulled the trigger,
on her sleeping cancer.

Play Dead- passage VII

"Our father who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us for our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us, and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory. for ever and ever. Amen."
"Amen" I repeated after Father Sawyer, He spoke the Lords prayer in a constant, grizzly monotone. A pointless, twisted ritual.
I stood behind the Pastor. The room was dimly lit; accentuating the sparse furnishings, deepening the heavy maroon curtains, drawn threateningly shut. The only prominent object in the room was a large edwardian bed, neatly made with a red velvet covers and white silken sheets. On the bed in hideous, angelic contrast lay a pubescent, comatose girl.
It was clear, from her bruised and skeletal ribs she was badly beaten. Her gaunt face showed no signs of being untouched. It was clear, she was still so very young, fourteen? Maybe thirteen? her breasts were not fully formed and still so firm.
I noticed she was chained, spread-eagled and gagged. I shivered with a crippling glee. Sawyer slowly walked over to a video camera, nested in a prime position to capture the evenings proceedings. "Where did you get this one from Sawyer?"
"Marston pulled her straight out of school, said she came willingly, fresh and wanting." For a man of the cloth Sawyer was a constant liar, no one would ever come willingly to this place, to this pit and rancid hell-hole. "Did Marston give any specific instructions?" I watched Sawyer nod, "he said he wanted us to break her in for Sheriff Roscoe, make sure she bleeds well."
The red light showed on the camera and I walked towards the bed.

Play Dead- passage VI

What would my Father of done? Killed her, thats what. Like he did my mother. Gave her a double dose of rock salt, straight in her chest, said it was self defense, said she was a whore. I hated him. Bastard.
I remember that day. I was twelve years old, it was summer. I was playing in the cornfields when I heard the scream. Heard the shots, and ran, through the corn towards the house. Towards the last memory of my Mother.
Her body lay on the floor, pheotal and bleeding, stillborn. An empty bottle of bourborn smashed on the floor , a thousand glistening shards stained crimson. One for each ruptured promise. Cracked and Beautiful.
My father, sweating and shaking, sat at the kitchen table, one hand perched on the broken shotgun. The other gripped his drink, her drink, my Mothers jasmine tea. He died six years later, in a car accident, he tried the brakes and they didnt work. I never went to his funeral.

Broken Verse I

Come sin with me, my Darling.
Subject yourself to reasoned lust.
Deliver me, bind me blindly,
in my Heroin salvation.