Tag Archives: Death

Life and The Writer (sequel to Death and The Writer)

The Writer

“Of the few unpleasant species like myself
Even fewer love a happy ending.
But again there are few who won’t care about rules of dark writings
Any more than they’d care about a broken toothpick!”
These thoughts run through the mind of the writer,
As he heads back from the shrink’s cave.
His hair is well combed and like shiny metal.
His eyes glow with eerie warmth and calmness.
An enchanted smile adorns his lips and cleanly shoven chin.
One gently swaying arm holds a baby bird.
There was something beautifully divine about the bird
Even the air smelt divine, almost spiritual
The other arm with shaky fingers holds a white-inked pen.

The victim

The full picture of emptiness
Sitting between calmness and uncertainty,
His throat bears the aftertaste of good food,
Which though sits uneasily in his tommy
In view of his maltreatment and enslavement,
The hole (where the padlock was) remains –
An unforgettable lesson on his lips
As he speaks every day.
His wrists bear marks from the cuffs.
His broken legs are yet unhealed.
His mind is unsure of what to expect
From the writer upon return.

The conversation

Writer(W): Hello friend! How have you fared?
Victim(V): Friend? Hehehehe.
W: As you could guess, I was only being sarcastic calling you friend. Not a chance!
V: As well! Anyway, I have resigned myself to this fate. I know how dying feels. I am well used to it by now. This is your fifth return from your shrink, and I have not fared any better. I have felt my body die, and horror as I felt it come alive again back to your chains. I have felt you drain my hope as you would treat me kindly before you go see your shrink, only to deal worse with me on returning. I have felt my soul die. The corruption of these chains have drained my hope, my light, and what sense of sanity I had left. What more? Oh! You will release me now -the new monster you have created -knowing that I am not the same again? I can’t successfully live a normal life -my sense of humanity, morality and dignity twisted by your darkness.
W: Hahahahaha!!!! Halt your speech there! See who is talking like a philosopher now.
I am wrapping all this up now

Conclusion

And as the victim watches
With the uneasy calmness of one used to pain and suffering,
The writer takes the pen
And in a decisive move
Sticks it in the delicate heart of the heavenly dove.
Frank red blood gushes out.
As the blood flowed,
Something unnatural was happening –
Something damningly darker than any could have imagined,
Or something worthy of engaging the writer’s darkness.
The victim saw the writer’s countenance change.
The final deed has been done!
The writer’s insanity forever satisfied,
He then writes a new story in red.
The victim was set free
From the chains of darkness
By the shedding of another’s blood.
Something snapped in the writer’s dark mind
With his bold move on the dove’s life.
The victim’s story changed
And the writer’s madness was satisfied.
The victim was still in shock
As he was let out of hell.
He looked forward with hope
Into the life ahead of him,
Hoping and praying
He wouldn’t be a monster unleashed –
A likeness of the demon he just left behind in hell.
(Who was still a bit surprised
Because it wasn’t quite how he had planned the happy ending.)

At least, he wasn’t totally dead like the writer.
He could still HOPE and PRAY like a normal human
Who believed in the power of the unseen.

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The Writer and Death. (Warning: a dark writing!)

The writer

“Except for the other unpleasant species
Like myself,
Most don’t welcome
The dark theme of death.
Like I care!”
These thoughts run through
The mind of the writer,
As he screams foul
To the degree of howl.
His afro is dishevelled
Like one electrocuted.
His ears are taut like of a rabbit-on-heat.
His eyes are hard like a frozen ram’s.
Spit dishonours his lips and beard.
In one passionately fitful arm
He holds his pen.
In the other angrily convulsing
He holds a spiked whip.

The victim

The victim is on the floor –
A figure of life’s scrawny tail,
A specimen of minuscule dignity.
He has swollen cuts on the head.
Padlocks on his lips in shame –
Can’t even taste simple joys of life,
His wrists cuffed handicapped –
Unable to do things he always wanted,
Can’t reach basic necessities for life,
Can’t reach anyone to help him.
His back laced with weals,
His health suffers bad.
If wishes were horses,
This man would escape this hell.
But his legs are tied.
The writer adds a “cherry on top”
And breaks his legs -for insurance!

The conversation

Victim(V): Would ask why, but I doubt I’d understand your complex speeches.
Writer(W): I promise to make it simple.
V: Ok! Please tell me then -why would you want my life’s story this way?
W: because I have never written about someone dying before. I am sorry it had to be you, but whomever I chose would still have complained like you are doing. Just accept your fate. Besides, I have saved you from a meaningless existence. Do you know the many people whose lives follow scripts of fame, wealth, romance, and the whole parade of epicurean pleasures. Cliched vanities! So, if I hadn’t castrated you, what would you have achieved before old age did? Reared children like rabbits to propagate this meaningless existence, or what else? Further, doesn’t your Christianity teach death as way to life? “Die to yourself!”
V: I knew it! You started simple and you went off too deep. How does your mind work like that?
W: Aha! Glad you still have some sense of homour. Anyway, I am also caught in a net of my own. I grew up to find my mind this way. Wish I could help it, but I guess the process of changing my mind-that-makes-complex-sentences-and-is-writing-out-your-life-story-just-for-the-sake-of-a-piece-on-death might as well be as torturous as yours. So, do I kill myself just to shut my mind?
Here, let me also reward you by making your death quick and less dramatic.

Conclusion:…
And for hours the writer whiplashes coldly at the victim,
Screaming till his eyes would pop,
His pen running out of ink.
“Break his pride.
Add an extra pair of cuffs
To his elbows.
Make a v****a where his p***s is.
Add an extra hole to him,
A dent to his identity.
Hey! Here, see his legs going numb.
Quickly, time to bring the scorpions.
Let the pain exceed the numbness
Oh! Let’s pity him and let him lose blood fast.
Hehehe! Not too fast.
Please get 2 pints of blood ready for transfusion.
Let’s see which wins out –
The blood transfusion or the haemorrhage.
But please, kindly drain his heart of blood and hope gradually, gently, mercifully.
Yes, is the s** change surgery about to commence?
Anaesthesia please?
I am afraid not! That’d be unkind.
Oxygen mask please.
We don’t want him to die from surgery.
(I still have a reputation to uphold
As a doctor who must do no harm!)

All the while bystanders watched –
Youtube, facebook, twitter, wordpress, google+…
And when it was done,
The man survived.
The transfusion won out.
He was neither dead nor alive –
Just hanging.
The worst kind of death!
Better he had died into rest.
The writer seeing this,
He cooled, combed his own hair,
Shaved his beard and changed his undies.
He unlocked the victim’s padlock,
And the attendants gave him some food.
Then the writer called
To confirm his own appointment
With his shrink/Psychiatrist.

The Ghost’s Rants: On Beautiful Dark Things In Men’s Souls

Roll the booze out into the streets
The writer is awake now
And unlike some of his psychedelic colleagues
This one is a complete teetotaller

Darkness creeps in on the globe
And the viperoid children dance out
Spawning “goodness” all over the place
But thanks, I’ll pass
I don’t need your charitable donation
A lovely venomous gift
Perfect poison for the pure soul
Birthing the gentle worm of darkness
The adorable monster that men are addicted to
The silent dark shadow following them
Even in broadest sunlight
Despite their sparkling wears and smiles
The soft white delightsome maggot
Laughing sweetly with them
With sparkling teeth like a saw
Eating away at the soul of the host
Soon that man is seen for the rot that he really is
You wriggle your seductive hips in my face
But I want none of what you are selling
I have lost appetite for that forbidden fruit
Let me write and live and sleep in peace
What more can you want from me
After all, I have made my bedroom
Six feet below the ground level
At perfect unison with earth and bones
Will you rock my knocked out senses
Or can you corrupt a dead man

Heck! I am not praying for the day to dawn
I am not hoping for an escape from the black
My light may not be more than 12volts’ worth
But in the darkest of periods it will shine
Despite the corruptions of souls and institutions
Though the grave burns the ghost still R.I.P.s

Odd, right, inevitable

Trees

He turned to face me
Speaking in an endearing manner
How could I resist him
When he talked like that
I was not even paying attention
To his exact words
I did not exactly hear him say
“See that tree”
I was all dreamy when he said
“Go to the tree”
I shook at his deep rich voice not hearing
“Climb the tree”
I was hypnotically following him saying
“Hang yourself on the tree”

Then I snapped awake
“What!!! Hang myself?”

Fully recovered from my stray
I hear his voice clearly
No illusions now
I turn away from him with sure steps
And go to hang myself

A Silly Conflict Of Desires

To the Lyricist: a song.

I am the seeking one

I see life as split into two
But notice sneaky shades of grey too

I sit on the palm tree
The clock strikes three
Jesus I just need to see

I spot him by the door
Right on the dot of four
Through the entrance people pour
To secure a place near him on the floor

He says nothing until five
As some latecomers arrive
Now the place is like a beehive
I make sure to mind my own drive
Wondering what others hope to derive

Crowds hear as he speaks
Of wisdom his mouth reeks
To the wrecked he brings a sure fix
Without him Earth could soon be in a fix
Darn! I am hungry and it is just six
And I had waited for this for weeks

It chimes seven
And I am so riven
My hunger is a given
But I am also driven
To seek Christ’s truths that enliven
Setting me free from death’s oven
Argh! But please be done before eleven