Post by bromleyboy on May 3, 2008 16:31:08 GMT -5
Not exactly poetry but here's a creepy short from a ways back.
UNTITLED:
’Melancholia is a form of troubled artistic expression.’ These words echo with clarity as I lay here, brooding in a state of rebarbative sleeplessness. It is five thirty-seven am and I still cannot sleep. Secret voices whisper, growing stronger as I close my eyes. Turning away from the flickering strobe of my black and white television set, I take a long deep breath. Sleep deprivation. Yet another episode of my damaged head churning out increasingly depressive thoughts; encircling my brain like a pack of ravenous vultures waiting for the kill with calculated patience. Bi-polar depression, various sleeping disorders, my inability to co-exist with any one person on a romantic level, the way people mistake my benevolence for weakness, etc. Negative pulses flashing like an erratic electrocardiogram. Signals that prompt me into striking my pillow with frustration and embarrassment every time I subconsciously intercept one. For some reason, I think of smoke...
Looking out of the hotel room window, I see nothing but oppressive blackness. As I straighten myself and attempt to focus on the void, swirling shapes suddenly appear; spiders legs... no a tree... then a light! As my eyes follow the dim yellow beam I realise that it is nothing supernatural but belongs to my car, which is parked diagonally outside. Then I hear her voice. It implodes like a bomb. A thousand windows shatter in my brain, broken glass morphing into a trickling sound like wax dripping from a candle. ’You still love me, don’t you?’ I slap my own face.
To be perfectly frank, it would be very easy for me to blame her for everything that went wrong in our relationship. But if I was to even imply that I was faultless then it would be a total lie. Before our marriage, we had dated and broken up at least a dozen times but we were still able to maintain a pretty decent friendship regardless. We still cared about each other and she would often look after my mother while I was working away. How could I deny such loyalty? So one day, I got down on bended knee... then a year into the engagement she falls pregnant by some unmotivated little parasite and it was me that was left to pick up the pieces. We reconciled and, at her insistence, continued the charade for ’our’ child’s sake. In retrospect, this was a bad idea to begin with because I constantly ignored the alarm bells that rang deep inside. The ugly truths began to emerge from my subconscious list of pros and cons, eventually overwhelming me. Throw in a couple of past grievances and a three month old that’s constantly irate to the world, you have the tried and tested formula for a destructive relationship. Even to this day, I still think about that child and often wonder how he turned out?
I flip the channels on the tube. Nothing. Network upon network of time wasting televisual filth, most of which play back-to-back talk shows. This actually serves some remedial purpose as I attempt to relax in an uncomfortable wooden chair. While I watch these neanderthals punch their relatives and profess undying love to their household pets, I am content in the knowledge that I am far from the bouncy world of the padded cell. I continue to surf as a means of escaping her call but it does not help. She’s teasing me now. Her taunts clawing at my sanity, increasing with startling intensity every time. I visualise striking her pretty mocking face with a large metal baseball bat, ’take that you whore!’ Ten seconds later I dream of her holding me; twirling my hair between her fingers, nature sighing on our skin, soft warm breasts caressing my chest as she kisses me, her throaty caramel voice whispering velvet lullabies, promising me she never fucked anybody and that everything was going to be okay again.
I eat some toast and drink a hot cinnamon beverage but I am still no closer to sleeping. For an hour I read an old newspaper before moving on to a library book that was written by some doctor in the seventies about demonic possession and how the symptoms are not that dissimilar from prolonged LSD usage. This is ridiculous! Inside I feel like I am dying of exhaustion, yet my unbalanced body will not surrender to slumber.
With that said, I wrote this a good twenty years ago:
LAST MOVIE:
Davey's not the boy next door
but a god on the silver screen
Lived in Paris, fucked some whores
came back home, "where have you been?"
One month later he overdosed
passed out dead in the back of his car
For sixteen days he decomposed
"he smelt real bad but what a star!"
But the best film I remember
was one that was called 'I Dismember'
The psychopath that killed the girl
chopped her up and went to hell
Is that where he's headed?
Is this what he dreaded?
That was his last movie.
Okay, you can throw rocks at me now, LOL.
UNTITLED:
’Melancholia is a form of troubled artistic expression.’ These words echo with clarity as I lay here, brooding in a state of rebarbative sleeplessness. It is five thirty-seven am and I still cannot sleep. Secret voices whisper, growing stronger as I close my eyes. Turning away from the flickering strobe of my black and white television set, I take a long deep breath. Sleep deprivation. Yet another episode of my damaged head churning out increasingly depressive thoughts; encircling my brain like a pack of ravenous vultures waiting for the kill with calculated patience. Bi-polar depression, various sleeping disorders, my inability to co-exist with any one person on a romantic level, the way people mistake my benevolence for weakness, etc. Negative pulses flashing like an erratic electrocardiogram. Signals that prompt me into striking my pillow with frustration and embarrassment every time I subconsciously intercept one. For some reason, I think of smoke...
Looking out of the hotel room window, I see nothing but oppressive blackness. As I straighten myself and attempt to focus on the void, swirling shapes suddenly appear; spiders legs... no a tree... then a light! As my eyes follow the dim yellow beam I realise that it is nothing supernatural but belongs to my car, which is parked diagonally outside. Then I hear her voice. It implodes like a bomb. A thousand windows shatter in my brain, broken glass morphing into a trickling sound like wax dripping from a candle. ’You still love me, don’t you?’ I slap my own face.
To be perfectly frank, it would be very easy for me to blame her for everything that went wrong in our relationship. But if I was to even imply that I was faultless then it would be a total lie. Before our marriage, we had dated and broken up at least a dozen times but we were still able to maintain a pretty decent friendship regardless. We still cared about each other and she would often look after my mother while I was working away. How could I deny such loyalty? So one day, I got down on bended knee... then a year into the engagement she falls pregnant by some unmotivated little parasite and it was me that was left to pick up the pieces. We reconciled and, at her insistence, continued the charade for ’our’ child’s sake. In retrospect, this was a bad idea to begin with because I constantly ignored the alarm bells that rang deep inside. The ugly truths began to emerge from my subconscious list of pros and cons, eventually overwhelming me. Throw in a couple of past grievances and a three month old that’s constantly irate to the world, you have the tried and tested formula for a destructive relationship. Even to this day, I still think about that child and often wonder how he turned out?
I flip the channels on the tube. Nothing. Network upon network of time wasting televisual filth, most of which play back-to-back talk shows. This actually serves some remedial purpose as I attempt to relax in an uncomfortable wooden chair. While I watch these neanderthals punch their relatives and profess undying love to their household pets, I am content in the knowledge that I am far from the bouncy world of the padded cell. I continue to surf as a means of escaping her call but it does not help. She’s teasing me now. Her taunts clawing at my sanity, increasing with startling intensity every time. I visualise striking her pretty mocking face with a large metal baseball bat, ’take that you whore!’ Ten seconds later I dream of her holding me; twirling my hair between her fingers, nature sighing on our skin, soft warm breasts caressing my chest as she kisses me, her throaty caramel voice whispering velvet lullabies, promising me she never fucked anybody and that everything was going to be okay again.
I eat some toast and drink a hot cinnamon beverage but I am still no closer to sleeping. For an hour I read an old newspaper before moving on to a library book that was written by some doctor in the seventies about demonic possession and how the symptoms are not that dissimilar from prolonged LSD usage. This is ridiculous! Inside I feel like I am dying of exhaustion, yet my unbalanced body will not surrender to slumber.
With that said, I wrote this a good twenty years ago:
LAST MOVIE:
Davey's not the boy next door
but a god on the silver screen
Lived in Paris, fucked some whores
came back home, "where have you been?"
One month later he overdosed
passed out dead in the back of his car
For sixteen days he decomposed
"he smelt real bad but what a star!"
But the best film I remember
was one that was called 'I Dismember'
The psychopath that killed the girl
chopped her up and went to hell
Is that where he's headed?
Is this what he dreaded?
That was his last movie.
Okay, you can throw rocks at me now, LOL.
...you are way talented, the imagery really makes it 
More please 
