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.

Haiku II

Sitting on the grass,
Watching it grow day by day.
Until I can see.

Play Dead- passage V

Another day of freedom. It was refreshing, much like the rare breezes of this stagnant, bloated summer. I thought that time of such suppressive desperation would never cease, never end, it would spiral on until that bastard pulled the trigger. Or I did.
Now I had a new life. My life. My own man to love, and his grace growing inside of me. I clutched my hands over the tiny bump and thought, of the only other time, I had been this content in life. Before he changed.
He used to be so amorous, so tender-hearted, so steadfast. He used to give a fucking care about me first and the rest of this damn life second. Then he joined the army, became a soldier, went to war. He said that he ''wanted to be something that his wife could be proud of'. To come home a hero and have stories for our children.'' We had no children.
The only story he gave was when he broke down, through drunken, unhinged sobs. About how his foot-patrol were ambushed in a land untouched by God. About how he watched his friends get blown from this life in a harrowing salvo of hellfire and shrapnel. In a crimson haze of gore and pleading screams. That was the day the light died his eyes. The day I no longer mattered.

Play Dead- passage IV

Hungover. A thick blanket of nausea suppressed my every waking movement, goading the sleeping alcohol to erupt from my stomach. It had been two weeks since she had left, two weeks since a bottle of strong bourbon a night never seemed enough. ''She'll come back'' I thought, ''and that workhouse whore will stay.'' I grinned ''Whore.''
I uneasily sat up in bed; still half dressed, head still pounding, looking across to see that yesterdays pay was spent on a puerile, lackluster girl. She said she was nineteen, anyone could see she was at least three years younger, now her make-up was covering the sheets. A starburst anarchy of discount foundation and mascarra.
''Cheap, nasty, slut.'' I didnt care, each fuck was always the same, each underage whore was always different. Three-fingerd Marston should keep better check on his merchandise.
Not wanting to endorse any comfort from Marston's cattle I urged myself out of bed but all too quickly for my tender stomach. Blood drained from my face. Throat tightened. Can't breathe. Wretched, dry heaved. Vomit.

Play Dead- passage III

The evening sun shone strongly through the fractured kitchen window, only to illuminate how my home reflected my marriage. A kaleidoscope of shattered promises, our bittersweet splinterd life. A livid, desperate dream.
That damn whore had wrecked my house, wrecked the home I had worked hard to make for us. She had taken her good scissors and shredded my clothes, my best suit, the curtains, bed sheets. it looked like she had even used them to gash holes in the mattress and chairs.
I knew she had left. Packed her things and gone. Bitch. The only message she left was written smugly; proudly, on the back of our only wedding photo, it lay there crumpled and dog-eared, on the dated kitchen table. The bullet hole her full stop, signature. It read ''Fuck You.''

Falling

Falling. Falling through,
this warpstar melodrama.
Ashen mane. Tourniquet,
the seven circle stigma.

Muted. Credence manacled,
to heartbreak euphoria.
Stillborn babe. Son of sam,
plighted cherished hysteria.

''Power in the strike comes from the breath not the muscle.
Breath becomes energy in the body and extends through the limbs as power''

-General Iroh.

Crimson Comatose

Crimson comatose,
why were you the prize dear Lilium?
Caressed by feral tenderness.
sweet innocence refracted,
by the crystal glass of want.

Crimson comatose,
what happened dear Lilium?
Kissed by placid brutality.
Cloying ignorance splinterd,
and lust bled your rose.

Play Dead- passage II

Dinner had gone cold, that stupid whore said something about drinking myself stupid, but i didnt care. Didnt listen. She had fucked me around for the last time.
I sat in my chair, my place of solitude and power, a good bottle of bourbon smashed on the floor. The fumes blindingly strong, nectar to my rage, soaking Her mothers tatty rug in pools of pandamonic amber.
That bitch had bit me. My same bitten and ragged hands still totted the Colt. 45 my father had given me, like a viper, coiled and pissed off.
I watched her and ground my teeth. She was wasting my evening while she coward in that filthy corner, making me listen to her sob story about how she tries but is never noticed, her whimpers fell on death ears.
''Clean this mess up. Clean yourself up. then get into bed'' all I could do was drunkenly smirk as she got to her chores without so much as thankyou. The dusty lamplight caught the fresh purple welts on her cheek, livid and angry marks of a lesson well learnt.
I fired three shots that night, two had landed neatly in the wall, just short of that bitch. the last tore apart a photo frame. Our marriage was broken anyway.

Poetic irony

Whats in a poem?
Except lost words and phrases,
Speeches of dead men.

Play Dead- Passage I

She had been laying there, lifeless, for the past hour. The stale smell of dead passion mixing with the sickly stench of blood, it choked my nostrils, and an all too familiar pleasure convulsed through me.
"stupid bitch" I growled through clenched teeth "you just dont help yourself do you?" she couldnt role over to distance herself, I was still on top of her, so she just looked away. All the feelings she once had for me had long gone, I had broken her until she was barren, void of all emotion. Power was addictive.
I slapped her hard, thats all I know she deserves. Swinging myself out of the dirty; unkempt, bed, She had failed to tidy the sheets again, I did up the worn buckle on my belt and slid into a plain, loose shirt. The summer was heavy, i could feel myself breathing in the moisture, the heat was acrid.
I turned to look at her, she still lay there, as useless and morbidly pathetic as she always was. Spitting in her direction ''dinner at six'' I left for work.

Angel Of Death

They said I was an Angel of Death.
A soldier of God,
A servant of our Lord.

They told us that He created all in His image.
We were His hate,
We were His anger.

They gave orders to destroy His enemies.
Crush the traitors,
Kill the heretics.

With fire and salt we were to purge the land.
Cleanse the mutants,
Burn the unclean.

With Sword and Shield we were to defend His laws.
Defend the righteous,
Protect the Just.

We were to write His words into history.
Burn flesh with faith,
scar bone with steel.

For this we would be righted of our wrongs.
Absolved of our sins,
Forgiven for our faults.

We are the soldiers of His Majesty. Our Lord.
His servants bound in prayer,
His Angels of Death.