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The eternal love
The last meal
Going into Death’s delicate hands
of love and destruction.
I lay my naked body before you,stretched over the bed
as though it were an alter.
Your blade can swim through my skin
as sharks slice through water.
My flesh will gift you with rubies.
My bare throat catching moans
like small birds in flight.
These nights are long and so has been my suffering. I grow old but I grew tired long ago. I was a young man when the curse befell me, and now though grey in age and having gained more wisdom, I have not gained any rest, nor freedom from the chains that bind me. I yearned for solitude. I wanted to see what the world was like when no one was watching. How I imagine the forest must have laughed at my ignorance, my own naivety to think I was safe.
That night haunts me as a ghost, tormenting me awake and dreaming. My hands were raised to the night sky, crying out in anguish, pleading for my life. How the beauty of the moon taunted me as the sharp teeth and claws tore at my flesh, and my screams drowned in my own blood in my mouth. And then I was gone. No longer of this life. Feeling nothing of my own body or the forest floor I lay upon. And then, such pain. Such stretching of flesh and snapping of bones and teeth, and such screams of prayers of wanting to die, and wanting to end it that caught as howls in my throat.
I wished for solitude and now I am cursed to it. Is the moon forever to be my mistress? Is death the only thing I shall ever reap? Trapped in a cycle which I cannot break. Even the moon sets, so when will I? Even the moon is not always full, so why am I always so full of this sadness? It is said that he who is unfit to live in society must be either a beast or a god. I’ve been one long enough and I have been forsaken by the other. I do not wish to be one anymore, or either at all. I only wish for an end to this curse I am bound to by the moon. Everything I touch turns to ash and the taste of blood in my mouth. I pray for Death, and all the world turns its back.
The surgeon had done this many times before, for many years, and he loved this procedure more than any other. Paper had been lain beneath to catch the refuge, and the cold metal tools waited in a row, glinting in the harsh light. He drew the lines across the orange colored flesh with precision and palpable excitement. He held the knife as an artist does a paintbrush and made the first incision, the jagged blade penetrating through the outer layers of flesh and then deep inside to the hollow body. He admired the dark cavernous insides, where no eyes had before seen its hidden beauty. He whistled while he worked, his hands steady, the shapes of his carving taking life. The viscera lay around him in piles, and his hands were sticky with the wet bowels of his work. Upon completion, he stood back from the corpse and smiled. And the face of the jack-o-lantern, its jagged-toothed mouth, grinned back at him.
The moon is my clock, and when it is full, it will be time to see you again.
My head has been full of confusion and the sky of spaceships.
The bugs splatter across my windshield like rain and
I wish it was my brains on the pavement.
The pain in my chest has spread; I can feel it in my thighs, arms, throat.
I hope I see you before it reaches my head,
or at least before the steel barrel of my gun does.
Razors can’t seem to be sharp enough, can’t seem to cut deep enough,
I feel like my blood is too hidden to reach.
I couldn’t feel it slicing my skin open, but then again, I can’t make it hurt like you can.
I’m sure I’ll never be able to feel anything again.
I know that even razor wire and cement walls couldn’t keep us apart,
so why do I feel so far away?
Richard Ramirez was in my dream.
He was tall and we danced. We had never met before. He didn’t know who I was, but I knew him, and that he had already murdered women.
I said “I know who you are, night stalker.” And to prove it, in the middle of the noisy packed bar, I pulled down the collar of his t-shirt a bit, to expose the top of an upside down pentagram that he had carved into his own chest.
He was super confused and shocked. He stared and then motioned for me to follow; he wanted to take me outside somewhere. I kind of blew him off, because I was dating someone already and so I started gathering my coat and bag, muttering excuses.
He turned away from me and went outside with his friends, who were wearing black and dressed like punks. After a few minutes, I thought better about it, and followed him outside. I called out “Richard” and he turned and looked at me, and then turned away, went into the street with his friends to set off some kind of m80.
There was a cop nearby watching them, whom I started talking to, to distract her, while they set off the explosives near a Cota bus. The shockwave blew out the bar windows and was visable to the eye; a color like blue fire.
This is a terrible web we’ve woven.
And it was I alone that ruined our relationship.
Now,
Our beautiful lives as spiders;
Stalking, catching, cocooning,
Sucking dry the flies,
Really only exists somewhere between dreams and reality.
His eyes are upon me again, I can feel it. Sometimes he’s a tall looming silhouette on the path behind me when I walk at night, or a whisper in the wind outside my window. Other nights, he’s the noises coming from the darkness between the trees, or the warm sticky breath upon my neck while I sleep. But he’s always those eyes; piercing and dark, with such depth and hunger.
He’s been following me for so long, awake and sleeping, that my body can register his closeness before my eyes see him. His presence, although frightening, has become familiar. There has always been that grip of fear in my core, the electricity down my spine, but now there’s something else as well.
His eyes feel like a weight or a blanket; covering, hiding, and comforting me. But sometimes it feels like the warm sun on your face after being in the cold. Sometimes it’s easier to sleep knowing I’m not alone, even if he’s always out of reach. And his eyes, only ever watching and never daring to touch.
This is where I was born.
Cold stone and metal were my womb.
Electricity was my mother, and my Father isn’t one.
I travel this world tormented and alone;
searching for answers I’ll never get,
and companionship I’ll never have.
I yearn for understanding and peace,
but I’ve only ever known fear and pain.
Am I being punished for the sins
that belonged to the men that I used to be?
I long for the day when I can put an end to that monster of a man,
the one who bestowed my hideous being with life.
I feel as though I have existed for an eternity.
I fear I may never make sense of who or what I am.
I search in vain for my creator,
and for Death,
and I am terrified that I may never find either.
The roe buck was dead.
The snow mounded around his lifeless body half concealing him.
His antlers grew out from his sad head,
an echo of his power and strength in life.
His legs lay out at awkward angles,
white tongue lolling from the side of his mouth,
out from between his flat teeth and lips stretched thin and pale.
He had fallen into death some time ago;
his fur falling from the hide in piles around him,
unto the ground and the snow.
Rough naked patches of flesh spotting his body,
the skin ripped and shredded open along the spine and ribs.
The remnants of coyotes feasting upon the carcass for their dinner.
The bones still had meat clinging to them in places,
and the rotting sac of organs beneath the rib cage exuding no smell,
frozen in the mid Winter chill.
It seemed that all he was,
everything that made him a deer,
was slowly falling away into the snow.
The only remaining legacy of life; his empty black eyes.
And in the Spring,
all that would remain would be his bare bones
scattered across the ground.
It has been centuries.
While I have found pleasure in the work,
and have gained much skill through time,
I no longer get the satisfaction.
With every kill I make it gets easier and less fulfilling.
I am always searching for that perfect prey to give me what I want,
more than the things I need.
Eons pass and men fall before me.
Hopelessly bound by my love.
Rendered paralyzed by my gaze.
Wrestling internally with themselves to figure out if
I am real or only a dream.
If I am a goddess or a daemon.
Their blood is my life,
their love feeds my soul,
but they never last long;
can’t hold up against the intensity of my existence.
They worship and bend and beg for my love,
and eventually they withdrawal or attack or run.
And that’s when they are ended like so many before them,
and I begin the hunt anew, in search of another.
I grow tired, and wiser, and stronger,
but they never seem to change.
Mortal men are weak,
bound only to themselves and not built for eternity.
I eat their hearts and collect their souls.
Use their bones to build my armor
and that’s all they’re ever good for.
Their names drip like spells from my tongue,
and after centuries it seems my magic still isn’t strong enough
to find a thing I cannot eventually destroy.
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