Lonely Tombstones and Dark Storms

A lonely tombstone on the edge of the abyss brings a deathly air to tediously dragging ceremonial events

A solitary figure casts a creeping shadow over the grave as the days light is corrupted by nights threatening presence slinking across the grey skies above, bleak words spoken in monochrome tones blandly tell the span of a life lived in best intentions, unintended sins heavily evident in the lacking numbers present to send off the mortally expired person; six foot deep with no tears shed and not even the falsely redeeming whisper of a mournful cry

Grave diggers idle wait in slumped pose as leaning on muddied shovels they take long drags on cigarettes, their grunting conversation and blank faces as much emotion as the grimly played out celebration of a life will know

Rain falling with shattering force upon the lone soul there to take note of another merc fatally felled in battle upon distance shores, having fought for empirical reasons viewed scornfully by the mass public such wars are meant to serve, a mass public protected from horrors and nightmarish mental scars such faceless soldiers are sent to far places to endure

The following wake somehow an even more condemning show of depressions worth as that lone soul hunches over a bar, a bottle of vodka tightly gripped as its poison is splashed messily into a shot glass, the fifth refill in as many minutes of a shameful display that draws indignant sneers from passing observers and merry revellers who know not of/care not for the reason or the cause

Every happy laugh, sincere demonstration of abundant love and smiling verbal exchange a stinging reminder of all life’s bounty the hunched figure desperately wishes they could feel again, no more even a faded ghost of hope that they will find such things as horrors and nightmares jaggedly cut through the illusion this world is so kind

A lonely tombstone on the edge of the abyss

An empty coffin rests six feet under

Its supposed occupant mercifully granted freedom from irredeemable acts with the illusion of death, now without name or history in the endlessly crushing tide of life

A bottle of vodka and a shot glass the only way peace will ever again be found



Figures dark and fools who ignore the warning flames

A shadow of a figure lingers on the edge of everyone’s vision, fated death in his coldly blank eyes

Honest person’s subtlety shuffle to the farthest corner away as less positive hauntingly linger with glasses in hands, each with a suggestive nod of respect to the shadows where our figure occupies

Lacking in intelligence or self survival the most stupid turn without an air of caution to offer joyously toned platitudes of hope and happiness imbued

The figure casts stony glares with ill warnings carried with the deadest of tones, a warning carried with hellion implying words and tone

The fool turns to anger and threatens, insults and accuses the figure with ill advised energy in each dangerous term of insulting blindness to the flames in each of the figures ominously darkening eyes

A final warning thrown as daggers from an assassin’s hand, each a miss but each warning tone close enough to let even the most lacking intelligence know to safely retreat in apologetic step and begging form

Stupidity fuelled platitudes hath turned a shade of foolish insult, to anger carried so insultingly superior sounding that even angels of strong will have conspicuously stepped a thousand yards in opposite direction

Casually rising, eerily calm delivery for the hatred wielding flurry of poisonously flared verbal assaults and with a burning pitch of resentment in every razor sharp word blazingly thrown, the sinisterly escalating figure becomes as overshadowing as an evilly possessed god

The quiet of the room reflects the stunned silence in each fear afflicted eye in that pale frozen face plastered on the fool, retreating so quick as to neglect even the most basic concept of stability demonstrated in the frequent and amusing stumbling run our fool adopts to escape the room

From godly rage in every creeping tendril reaching from the largely scaled form the figure previously grew to, now slinking coolly back into the huddled mass of blackness that clings menacingly to the deep shadows

The room settles easy with the ghosts gripping glasses hunching back into broken images of former humans, complete souls pushing the edges of where light allows with weary movements, so to let the shadows bleak presence remain alone in their crippling hell

The figure’s demons satisfied and now lying low in the more warmly appearing face and features of that previously ungodly mad postured thing he had become, illusions of calm shimmering in perfections reflection of every wretched detail the dark figure has grown to detest but must project


Comment Roundup PT2

“I’ve had a lifetime of those nights” lamented the darkly reflective drunk, his lingering glass haunting the gravely occupied bar top

“She was the trigger, my nature the gun” a shot glass fired back as fast as the barman’s delivery can fuel each measured chapter of the destructive act

“The hour of that eternity, the second my sanity left” the barman lets the drunk further into a bottles drifting stupor retreat, merci ridden is such an act when faced with the grim looks he serves every deathly night he fuels the internally dead

“Now let me never be sober, or I’ll catch a razor blade death” as into the night fades all that makes the barfly’s mood so stained an unhappy shade of black, blissfully darker with each liquid bullet downed in increasingly uncoordinated shots

“And if that bitch says I raised a finger” a pause in bleak spirited pace, slurring words to a timely length equal to the rope each depressive uses to tie their noose

“Let it be known, lies and an empty bottle carry more weight in the eyes of a judge” the shot glass dismissing its contents to the floor, the intended drinker passing out

Not a grimace of pain upon impact with the floor many have called a bed, but a look of content to mark the hallowed event to be free of conscious memory of all he drinks to forget

A post Christmas hangover… PS; Sorry if it’s a repeat!!

It’s shadow hung over the entire room, the sickly sparkly glaring disco ball off a puke fest “Geeze buddy, you get a acid tripping fairy to puke these decorations up” Edgar’s voice offending every red pointy hat patron; currently shuffling covertly away from the blackening cloud of despair lingering above his head “I feel like I might be in a bad TV special” the drink in Edgar’s hand taking the edge off all the sickening merriment.

The barkeep was new; young and unsullied like a fresh apple off the tree, dropped into the flaming pits and about to lose the shiny sheen “You guys are so morbid, lighten up its..” Edgar’s look shut his smugly positive tone down fast, dust trail fast “ok, I sense those words won’t go down well” as the barkeep retreated to a brighter corner of the bar”, it was then that the bar owner emerged in all her five eight, sexy arsed sequin dress coated imposing figure.

The women’s sauntering put to mortal shame an actress seductively prowling a casting party, every sly movement scripted more than a political speech and damn more finer “Why the party bitch, friggin happy hour and I’ve got to wear dark glasses get past that grotesque thing” Edgar’s glass wielding hand so slightly hinting towards the overshadowing Christmas tree “at least be a half decent hostess and refill my drink, feels like I got a desert in my hand” glass wielding hand again highlighted, an edge of elusive cheer under the layers of unhappiness staining his voice’s latest barrage of offence.

She planted herself as a tree behind the bar, bottle tight in her branch like grip as eyes turned to fiery pits; each fire ball brewing aimed at the bar steward called Edgar P Smith “You” opening her mouth stiffly for the single word, as loaded as a barrel full of hatred filled dictionaries “you are a dirty mark on this world so terrible stained the colours of all that’s wrong, no amount of bullets or bleach could remove you” with the full scornful array of pitch only a women’s voice could achieve, as she shrewdly manipulated her perfect form towards Edgar, in such an articulated manner a stage director would be stunned with awe.

Edgar lost none of the momentive explosiveness of their exchange as he stayed rocky still with that same depressive grin slapped all over his rough shaven features, sniper sharp eyes locked onto the bar owners own fiery hellion orbs “Well, if I am to blemish this world you could at least make sure it’s not in a sober fashion you useless…” a pause upon the ledge of what could be the fuse lighting word “no, I’ll hold back as a priest at a porn convention” that hint of elusive cheer twisting darkly into playfully tempting cruelty.

The young barkeep was like the other immediate revellers; frozen in curiosity as each of them craned necks a little over the invisible hazard line of where safe distance became willing suicide, two protagonists locked dangerously into a destructive dance of poisonous jibes and ignitable volatile hatefulness. The bar owner as close as she could be without the bar disintegrating; its job more safety barrier than extended drinks coaster, Edgar leaning the least closest he could without shattering the illusively calm qualities of what made him appear statue still.

Gunfights in westerns paled to how this showdown ratcheted the tension beyond unbearable…

“If I wasn’t a lady I’d have my knife so far into your throat… I’d aim for the heart but that’s something you sold out a long time ago” she quietly exaggerated her volume

“A lady would have poured me a drink… and considering your attire; I’d be a little turned on as to where you were hiding that knife” Edgar playfully poking the unstable bomb of a woman before him

She slapped him with such resounding sound the onlookers were affected by the shockwaves, Edgar unmoved in the slightest and grinning so much more twistedly and darker than before

“I’ve shot men for less” his free hand placing a charged energy pistol on the bar “want to see how heartless I can get” a dare as menacingly spoken as the sniper shot of rage from his fixated glare

She casually manipulated the gun, Edgar’s hand still gripping it, to her chest “Go on” no sense of fear in the threateningly quiet manner with which she delivered her potentially fatal invitation

Edgar placed his empty glass on the bar’s surface, now as ever the only thing preventing their bodies meeting in a probably horrifically violent outcome, as in an act of escalation Edgar in intimidating fashion rose to his feet and snatched the bottle from her lightning quick and forcible enough to get an ‘oohhh’ from the crowd. “At least pull the knife bitch, make it a fair fight” swigging wildly from the bottle in outlandish style, gun not moving from her chest “or are you all innuendo and no action” that darkly playful tone further twisting into places the devil would stay away from.

The bar owner’s newly free hand slid her dress up seductively slowly; the crowds reactions varying from lustful stares to further faint complexions, a five inch blade of slim design drawn slowly from its thigh binding in a purposefully drawn out way, feeding freely the strangling tension of the room as the merest sound caused palatable paranoiac effect within the neck straining crowd. As the blade’s tip was turned so softly upon Edgar’s throat his breath remained calm, as ever to prevent additional intrusion into his flesh as to preserve the impossible levelled calm he still somehow exuded with illusively visible ease.

“Could have just hello you drama queen” the bar owner laughed

The looks on the gathering faces was so purely shock, such dangerously escalating heights of damningly tense levels descended in the merest of seconds “You ain’t a writer, my phone never breaches my hangover with that so dorsal voice of yours and…” Edgar holding with an edge of frustration as he faced the still lingering crowd “you can fuck off now” a significant instructing boom to the volume of his disinterested tone.

By the morning a knife sat next to Edgar’s gun on the floor of his office, next to the bar owners dress… without a body in it “Next Christmas Edgar, we do this in my office” she muttered half asleep, “Next year we just go on a fucking date, less hazardous you crazy bitch” scratching a red spot on his throat, she smiled.


Beasts of Men once Happy

To he the venom of all a world reaps within the cage of what defines a man

A nature driven between bars of socially acceptable logic to points that nature is no longer human enough to be seen or politely heard

Ash to ash, fractured glass to glass, blood to blood

We commit the core of a person derided to where even the mad call time to whence souls do run red with pain

But alas that man does so survive till form beheld is what all else would banish and hide

A form corrupted by what those that would heap a herald of demanding demons hath made to free them of thier ills

No more to harps we hear the one return as whips crack upon twisted flesh in driving dances of what this one endures

Lacking all a mortal would weep to be without for so many lay idle that the folk condemned to make up the price of toil are no longer to be sane

Then the cage is constructed from every internal value nailed into skin and mind combined so those to demand will sleep safe from the creature they hath watched the working wretched become

Sleep not whilst I so fight to keep all my rage within the toxic pits of venom pure that when I fail will rise a thousand times the flames of hell to curse the devil to hide

Then when all lies an image of destructive storm against the woefully pitiful defences that stood in earnest stand to save the sanity of the departed give not a tear to your eye

But a look to watch the beast I hold slink back into his cage with all the crimson trail of that fated fool to hath reached mockingly for the key to turn to release that thing that once was kind in all its beautiful form
The reaper will have me to rest

But what remains will have the world to cry in fear

The Women doth play

Edges of angst in the eye of darkness from a perfection afflicted form makes its way to wander vast over landscapes of the wooden vista, her monument to that liquor stained vista a singularly glass of poison that merely differs from the other acidic compounds on offer by means of a name.

He travels distance to infinite with a look carried way beyond the brick walls, corralling him and every other drunken excuse of humanity failed by the very core of that meaningless cause.

Even though she carries a heavy willed shackle in the construction of a wedding ring there lacks the promise of that deeper connection with the ever fading shade who placed it there, so slow a second ticking mile style fashion the womanly silhouette shuffles sexily over to this nights target/prize.

From casually purposeful glances on regularity of a paranoid’s clock he glances the red satin coated warning of a women’s form slinking between the bleakest shadows, a shark shamed by comparative measure to how subtle the lacking noise of her approach employs.

A look, a glance, a casual piece of visual artistry to covert the serious nature beneath what most would confer to be a drunkards turbulent ocean like drifting stare, he sees but plays the ice cube to resist startling what she wishes to imply much to what dangerously attracts her attention even more.

Perfection in her form as only a razor could lackingly compare holds as much danger as that said blade, the husband so disturbingly shifting on a bar stall shows just what wholeness the jealously consumes him with but for one touch of her lips so potentially vicious a beating from her aggressively posed husband would falter to threat as a cost to pay.

Maybe this one would best the beast she married and whisk her so theatrically away, with so provocatively motioned a drop of her hotel key into the somewhat deliberately provided pocket of a jacket swung so slightly with glaring intent in the direction she softly sways.

The bitch plays callous style to manipulate the delicate persuasion of both sides of two men’s emotional states with such an obviously understated play, but for the devil in red satin attire to belay the statuesque danger beneath thinly veiling fabric he would gamble his soul


The barman a common spectator to this nightly show shows not in grimly stony features the fact that after all is fought with furious fists and air colouring words, that the animalistic passion the women holds in feverishly steady state will bless him a nightly choir of screams in the backroom, as with freshly creeping light over morning dew she is as smoke fading in a fires dying hue.

As from self inflicted peril of both cruelly intended entertainment and romantically twisted dreams of ill inspired source, that barman is as ever the one to rescue and claim her from what self sought salvation she seeks in the arms of a man.

Darkness own to save a strip of whetched sin

Convert the cross of a man on the edge upon all an opening only hell can control

A second of the verse cast light from tortured tongue to make the soulless hurt

The man a cross of all his faith may beckon and fatally hold to hurt the whole

With bullet words fired from mouths of projectile hate in scenes a saint contorts

No more no less no ill no sail on seas into endless sands of that man’s pyre burnt

For when heavens hells did rise in jest so did the devil of a damned he would sing

Brought to the edge a times a told of timid tells to carry to sin the slyest of grins


Buy hey you hold in slightest slide, I ain’t done a deed by all that curse you beg


You fool you thing such thought as to challenge me, such angels hath failed to chain


Step so solid in fluid like motion make a gesture forward forth of a hallowed gun

No form to flee the free bird sings to spot the demon as a statue in what marks the sun

Whom yields the barrel feels mortal pain gone to pits from where a man is king


I am all a thousand screams of the ills cast to the graves marked by your signet ring


So command of vengeance falls to something a frail as paper flamed fails to condemn


Yet I of this wretched place have without choice of free being to your doom cast thin


Peace descends in the failing of a creature into closure of that place only hell controls

A ghost a man of what once was weight falls into graves carved a sunder by fates will

To arms he waits a hollow call to where once peace blessed the land of all unprepared

No more like sins flame rage in human form as was the man who steals angel’s wings


When the edge beckons battle the mortal fail, but the single one who harnesses his sin

Angels run in every way but down as all below shivers deep in fear of pain

The one who harnesses sin holds council over all that abides between

So know a shadow holds power where the light fails to a mere attempted dim

Thanks fall short when the one whose gun rises and loads with all that demons sing

For even a god of light and master of hate know the name of that fallen god

Fallen in human love soured by all the blaze his temper resistant to faith did bring