PS; I Will Kill You: Fond Memories

There’s nothing more satisfying than a pleasant reminder of nostalgia in one’s work.

When I first saw your quivering, horrific body in my apartment, like some terrible reflection of myself suffering all the emotional trauma I endured as of then but as physical pain, I considered this aa some cosmic moralizing that I would have to interpret once I woke up from my drunken stupor. Then I remembered you punctured my skull, doing more to it than I had done on my own, and began to scream.

More recently I have discovered I can recall your memories. A skill I wish i had access to when i was starting out my century long career of mimicking you and doing your old job, but one shouldn’t look a gift-horse in the mouth. In your case you shouldn’t have looked a stone cutter’s tomb in the mouth but that’s telling. What I do want to remind you of is all three times you’ve woken up not knowing anything that mattered.

The first time you were under a stone. Now I’m banking on that you’ll only remember the suffering but I’m willing to risk the chance you can prove that you’re you only because I write this under the assumption that I’ve killed you this time. The stone was cut into your shape, as was the tableau you were lying on, suffocating and crushing just enough so you couldn’t move. The soundless, lightless horror was someone’s sick idea of “thinning the herd” but that’s more spoilers for you.

Anyhow, you screamed and expelled just about everything that made you human which only crushed you more, then the hunger started and that’s where you lost it. A tooth broke off in your mouth and punctured your cheek and tongue, draining what you craved it of your own body, an act equal to running a car on fumes, and for three excrucuating minites you lifted a stone as large as the building blocks of egypt with your knees and wrists. I wish I could have watched until you actually escaped, but that would mean I would see you escape, so I lost interest after you stopped twitching in your own shit coated internal organs.

The second time started with that same cute little jiggle! You, a seizure, the moonlight kissing your agony like a nurse and me screaming in your place. You went blank twice as long as I did, which I only know because of the crappy digital clock flipped over onto the ground near that damned kid. I felt as if you gave me the world and then abandoned me with it, telling me nothing about how bad the hunger would be. Worse, but luckier than you, you left me to destroy my restroom with a combination of everything that made me human and made me regret drinking after eating spicy food. I think for you it was like having tto live out that terrible first time in reverse, which makes me giggle a bit whenever I think about it, but also makes me wonder if you spend that whole night reliving your life in reverse. Its one hell of a life, or unlife if you prefer, but you lived it and if you’re lucky you won’t remember any of it. Hell, I’ll be lucky if you don’t remember much of it, besidea the downs that is.

The third time was with our first letter! I was hoping to keep you together enough to read it while I was present but there was something between us and this time I hope that’ll be just as dead as you. There’s something about hand carving a tree to express one’s feelings that even couples in love understand, so that I wrote the last message on the one I pinned you under shouldnt surprise you. I tried readjusting the branch ao you’d die in one go and I’d have the record for world’s largest impailing but you just had to go and make friends.

Well, I hope I filled in some gaps, gave you enough to think about, and that the stone slab this one is on has more of thar nostalgic feel and close the loop your mere existence opened up.

So long and thanks for the new memories

PS; If I Didn’t This Time,I Will Kill You and Your Little Dogs Too.


PS; I Will Kill You: Chumming The Waters

This is what I thought when I first felt your caress;

Is there any blood on the floor? I screamed internally and wondered to myself over and over if I was bleeding on the floor. Forget the blood on my shirt or what was coming out of the gash on my head, but what about the floor? I can’t afford to lose any money on the deposit. I put in for the deposit eleven months, three weeks, five days, seven hours and fourteen minutes ago excluding seconds and it was all I had left after she died and I cannot afford to lose this deposit after the funeral oh god what is happening.

I got up and questioned events; I left for my fifth walk that evening because the silent void that was once our home screamed at me the only way a depressing mime of a shattered life can scream, then I was chased by the complex’s resident bruiser Charles, the five pound Chihuahua pup from hell. After a brisk bit of exercise, and a bit of hysterical laughter that got at least three of the resident night owls to curse me out for interrupting whatever late night garbage was on their devices, I went back into that yawning void of comfort to discover I wasn’t alone. This is where things ended, began and did a few other things I am not proud of.

First, I am not a cautious man. I charged my would be intruder with my already hyped up sense of adrenaline and self-loathing brought on by vicious puppies and angst-ridden octogenarians. The result was my flipping upside down and into the floor of my kitchen. Something sticky had made contact with my head and the floor and for a moment I thought I spilled bourbon after last night’s fifteenth pity party but alas the blood had started to flow and I knew that beyond my idiocy and head trauma that I was never going to live down that moment in my own head, so what I did next was worse; with a great amount of broken sense of self worth I lifted myself from the linoleum, grabbed the empty bottle of bourbon I hadn’t thrown out, a large glass bottle of Old Granddad, and I brandished it like a hobo’s Excalibur as I decidedly wrecked the shit out of the hooded figure stealing my shitty first gen plasma screen TV.

And lo did my blade sing true and not only shattered upon the foul beast of a fifteen year old lad’s head but then gutted the infant thief by digging the weight of my depressed form into him via a shard of handle glass I would not relinquish for the world. With the devil’s luck he flipped onto the device and bled into the cracked carapace, making a junkyard punch bowl out of my fucking television. I laughed triumphant until the realization that I killed a child in my home caught on and then I broke down for three hours. This is what led me to the repetition of our introduction with one another and I clearly apologize for my rudeness in neither producing the whole script in entirety without abridging nor the clear lack of regard for the boy as a defense mechanism.

As I said, this was our introduction and while you didn’t find any of this amusing at the time I hope you find it hilarious now, seeing that you do not find yourself in the current of events as they exist today. Regardless, I will describe you to the best of my ability and hope you understand why I have done what I did without making sure you were aided after the chaos of an afterlife ensued. First, I didn’t know that a large sitting bowl of blood attracted vampires. Second, I did not know that vampires were picky about their meals on the whole. Third and most important, I did not know that one teenager would not feed you. For all of this, you have my sincerest fuck you go die in a fire you fucked up my life you leechfucker.

What did happen was that you, a vampire who had no clue I was your ancestor, decided to stop by for a pie that was cooling on my living room floor. You entered the window the thief did, slid across the carpet just as any cold and lonely spider would without invitation, then fed your share of the bowl before deciding that heroin addict didn’t fit your meal plan. Then you saw me rouse and without questioning how you could enter a house where the occupant was still alive, you lapped up the back of my head like an actual vampire bat would. It only took three licks and then you pierced my cranium like a tootsie pop and there I went, taking you with me.

Now I don’t know how much, if any, of your memory has returned since then, but I’ll give you the fun facts. Vampires cannot drink from descendants of their human line or they will lose all of their memories. This is a fun little bit of the curse they added in without saying anything because God, The Devil, Aliens or the prick warlock who did all this to us thought it would be a great monkey wrench to add to the totality of the curse. What also wasn’t communicated was that if you turn someone via brain-blood, they get all your muscle memory. Cool trick if you’re looking to get a matrix-esqe download of bloodsucker kung-fu but not so pleasant when its happening. Lastly, I look like you. A LOT like you. Like Prince and the Pauper levels of stupidity going on in this Stoker nightmare you dragged my already done with life ass into. At least I got to move on, even if at break neck pace. On to what you might ask? Well, if you remember what you were good at then we’re golden on that front. If not? Well, lets just say I got a job to kill you once they found out I wasn’t you and can do your job better than you can.

More to come in future attempts to kill you, best of luck to my greatest of grandpas, Love Connor.

PS I will kill you.

Of Love

At your pass you cast my shadow,
As stars cut night through a window.
An eye of light, truth in starkness
As our pasts make molds of darkness
At the whim of fears they endow

Of love.

In the black feet flee in dances
On paths that take on old chances.
An eye takes me toward its entrance
On roads of hope that sing romance
In white lies and blood red lances

Of love.

The dusk clentched on my chest, yearning.
A spark you set caught on, burning;
An “I” blazed down with our shadows
As the “we” you lit up endows
All these fears with star-lights learning

Of love.

Internal Melt

So caustic I lie within my skin
Each bead leads to unease in heat
Nothing relieves the strain of these days
As desert summers drain me complete

In wills and ways I would spend some days
Meditant and still in how I rest
Yet no sleep to keep, to grasp or clasp
I guess this way is worse but the best

Madness and toil melt in roil
Tilling my mind to implant a seed
Drinking and slinking such as one can
For there is nothing here I would need

To thrive here is a gift ungiven
But I survive as I am bidden

8 – The City Lost

Bones suffer the strain, violent in their cage
Writhe with blood that blots out the sangrophage
Thoughts collide to form visions of their past
Flows as clean as veins can, then overcast
By clots, grotesque from birth to modern age

Noise shatters the scene, breaking in its wakes
Earth to dust and ground that cracks undertakes
Their coffins and live corpses to a grave.
Paths that part and branch en masse misbehave
Yet they cannot hide ways the destined take

Shine brilliant for him, city of the dead
Crypts now void old, young, poor and figurehead
Mad design made to define him as tick;
Bugs on back of light and life majestic
Shy off, away from where the walkways led

Stone caves convert to homes and hovels far
From the beauty that burns at sorrows scar.

The Ageless Tome

Worn on the edges by convulsive hands,
Encased in rough glass shattered into sands,
Recovered swiftly to forbidden lands,
Translated from words no one understands;
Was the tan book there to display its might,
Or inspire fools to chant in the night?

It was insipid to tame the unknown
With that wordless brick of inane old dreams
But some say they skim, mindless to what’s shown
While human thoughts sink in subconscious streams
So that those fools, lost into a nightmare,
Fall farther downward than any beast dare.

Still I read it once, to test present fears
Of community and of my country
Yet, as I thumbed it for strange words to try,
I saw only tan while I held my ears
To stop the ringing that cut through silence
Though not hearing it makes no difference.

7 – Resignation

Murder monsters dance in the thrush
As tumulting shores lap and crush
Echoes return in waves of gray
Each memory leaps to the fray;
Shattered senses start the rush.

Spreading legs whip out and assault;
A missed reunion, the husband’s fault;
Wild jaws crush down and reform;
The forced custody, his daughter’s norm;
Traumas unleashed from their vault

Rage consumes and rewrites his mind;
Violent hands sever weak, dead spines