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Topic: Challenge: Serial killer poem

le rayon du biscuit
(rayheinrich)

Thought Provoker

Member Since: 12/04/09
Forum Posts: 695

Challenge: Serial killer poem
Posted on: 03/01/10 at 18:31:36 CST

Here's a poem some people think was written
by the famous Zodiac serial killer:

---------------------------------
Sick of living/unwilling to die
cut.
clean.
if red /
clean.
blood spurting,
dripping,
spilling;
all over her new
dress
oh well
it was red
anyway.
life draining into an
uncertain death.
she won't
die.
this time
someone ll find her.
just wait till
next time.
--------------------------------

Your poem doesn't have to be like that, but it should be:

1. Written by (not about) a serial killer.
(the one in your head ?)

2. About killing someone in the past or future.

* This challenge is just for "fun", no judging will happen.

* The challenge has no end date. It's supposed to work as
as continuing DU thread of serial killer poems.

* You can post as many poems as you feel like, but thinking
like a serial killer for too long (see numerous movie
examples) may not be a good thing.

And, as always, comments on any poem are always welcome.

Mental illness isn't just a state of mind, it's a lifestyle. Let's market it. - - http://wordbiscuit.com

Abracadabra

Guardian of Shadows

Member Since: 11/13/09
Forum Posts: 633

Re: Challenge: Serial killer poem
Posted on: 03/01/10 at 19:33:05 CST

Re: Challenge: Serial killer poem Posted on: 02/03/10 at 01:28:38 GMT

Feeling Good

At the age of five
I sat by a nest of red ants
holding the magnifier
dispensing death by sunlight
smiling as those critters
crackled and fried

It felt good watching
them squirm
seeing the smoke rise
laughing as they died

My sister kept mice
they were fancy black and white
but there were always too many babies
and she didn't know what to do

She asked me to drown them
so I did that slowly
one by one
I was nine and I
held their little pink bodies
under the water
watching them die
in an old tin bucket
It felt good
my sister was happy
and that made me happy too

When I was sixteen
my girlfriend's cat had seven kittens
they were fluffy with blue eyes
they were almost as cute as she was
but the last of the litter
didn't turn out right
its head was too big
and there was only one eye
so I took a rock and ended its life
She said it was the right thing to do
and I felt good

At twenty one my first wife
told me she was leaving
heading off forever
she said she never wanted to see me
for the rest of her life
so I gave her what she wanted
hid her in the woods
and I felt good

I'm thirty two now
I've been married four times
and I find making people happy like that
is the best way I know
to feel good

Poetry is : Painting with Words

Melissa
(Missake2)

Twisted Dreamer

Member Since: 08/18/09
Forum Posts: 89

Re: Challenge: Serial killer poem
Posted on: 03/01/10 at 19:46:16 CST

Peace ...

Let me have you,
oh please,
just let me pull you out,
so sick of what you are,
oh just
let me paint you.

My hands start burning,
rage swells,
just let me reach out and
suck away the words you
babble,
I’ll make it all good.

What is fear to me anyway?
I boil
anything out with hate,
it is your own mistake,
just please
let’s erase the torture inside.

It will only take a second,
you won’t
even know that you are gone,
one rip, one twist, one less there,
oh yes,
empty thoughts again , let loose.

Believe, see and live like it ...

Abracadabra

Guardian of Shadows

Member Since: 11/13/09
Forum Posts: 633

Re: Challenge: Serial killer poem
Posted on: 03/02/10 at 07:06:28 CST

If I change my poem God's a Serial Killer into first person http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/poems/2042/ am I allowed another entry, Raybo?

Poetry is : Painting with Words

le rayon du biscuit
(rayheinrich)

Thought Provoker

Member Since: 12/04/09
Forum Posts: 695

Re: Challenge: Serial killer poem
Posted on: 03/02/10 at 09:20:08 CST

Of course. I forgot to mention that in the original post, so I went back and made it clear(er).
Thanks for the clarifying aura dude.

Mental illness isn't just a state of mind, it's a lifestyle. Let's market it. - - http://wordbiscuit.com

Abracadabra

Guardian of Shadows

Member Since: 11/13/09
Forum Posts: 633

Re: Challenge: Serial killer poem
Posted on: 03/02/10 at 09:29:36 CST

Yes, you are the expert at making things up as you go after all, Ray - ha, ha.
I expected nothing less from Monsieur Le Biscuit.
Ca Marche.

Poetry is : Painting with Words

David.S
(Viddax)

Thought Provoker

Member Since: 10/10/09
Forum Posts: 499

Re: Challenge: Serial killer poem
Posted on: 03/02/10 at 11:38:21 CST

He's a Killer

I walk down the street
The earth beneath my feet
I look normal just like you
My pleasant face seems true
And you would never guess
That I could make distress

Screams and wails as they die
Blood splashing, flowing by
With a knife or fist
After I've kissed
Whatever I can reach
Hands-on, pain I teach

Police swarm round the scene
Blood splattered over the screen
Blood running down the TV screen
Life can seem to be so mean

It was all over my hands
Viens, skin and glands
Washed away like rain
All the screaming pain
Hidden behind this face
Is a violent bloody ace

I walk down the street
The earth beneath my feet
I am just like you
But i can kill you

Stay unstable it makes life interesting, it gets you through after you've loved and lost.

Jack Heslop
(Heslopian)

Dangerous Mind

Member Since: 08/30/09
Forum Posts: 729

Re: Challenge: Serial killer poem
Posted on: 03/02/10 at 14:24:21 CST

I Did Not Know

A shotgun blast rends the air,
with precise barbarity,
like scissors through blank paper.
Birds flee the scene, like children
from homework, and so you fall below.
I did not know. I did not know.

The woods are a green coffin.
The trees are eulogy readers.
I stamp on the leaves, like dictators
do their nation's hearts, and you lie
still, as if aping a post-coital show.
I did not know. I did not know.

When first we kissed, and fucked, and
lied, and in my hopeless arms you cried,
when first I bought you a valentine's,
the world suddenly grew limp, like a
punctured soccer ball. On your tender face I blow.
I did not know. I did not know.

Grasshoppers were a game. I reconstructed
them like God, with grandma's knitting needle.
Ants are the Devil, I told myself, they ruin
picnics and make girls cry. And thus they had
to die. But you? That was not just so. though
I did not know. I did not know.

I loathe all mothers. Mine was my experiment,
my acid in a jar, my gross dead worm, my Bunsen
burner; my mater, my mater, my mater.
I dealt with her, like policeman deal with killer
dogs. A simple shot. Clean and fair. An average Joe.
I did not know. I did not know.

Then I made love to Emilie, a simple Yorkshire
woman; caressed her neck, played peek-a-boo,
snapped her frail frame in two. The shotgun
calls. It's me, it's you. It waits like an eternal
nag, an un-sated vulture, a thirsty crow.
I did not know. I did not know.

More of the harlots came and went, and after I
was spent, once the awful deed was done, I returned
them to the earth, like a groom who carries his fresh faced
bride, over their new threshold. But you were more than they;
like seeds, you made me grow.
I did not know. I did not know.

How could it end this wretched way? When our
heart's were two young pups, at play? I am old.
And weak. The trigger mentions power. The love
we shared, it crushed my spine, made me a burnt-
out car, a shredded map. To this place I thought I'd never go.
I did not know. I did not know.

I would face him, and say simply: I am sad that you are not strong, and do not swim and sail and ski, but you have a strong soul, and I will believe in you and make you invincible on this Earth.

David.S
(Viddax)

Thought Provoker

Member Since: 10/10/09
Forum Posts: 499

Re: Challenge: Serial killer poem
Posted on: 03/02/10 at 14:46:34 CST

I can Love you, I can Kill youI can Love you, I can Kill you
I can heal you, I can Disease you
That is if I did love you truly, madly, deeply
That is when I kill you fully and completely
I can’t love you I just want you
I don’t need you except to feel you.

If we were to meet on another street
I could lie and be open to deceit
Only so that I could keep you
And maybe control and subdue too
You can see the best and the worst
That drives my hunger and my thirst.

You are so beautiful and pure
But you already know I’m sure
And this makes me sick to death
I want you with every breath
But I’m different to anyone you see
Unique and alone, full of apathy.

I see you but I don’t feel you
I can’t do as you would do
My blessedly cursed half heart
Is both my ending and the start
Of all my love and my hate
Together in an adjacent state.

I can Love you, I can Kill you
I can be more than that too
I could keep you warm
In my arms away from harm
And also make you cold
Shiver at the secrets I hold.

I can Love you, I can Kill you
But I can’t do either without you.

Stay unstable it makes life interesting, it gets you through after you've loved and lost.

David.S
(Viddax)

Thought Provoker

Member Since: 10/10/09
Forum Posts: 499

Re: Challenge: Serial killer poem
Posted on: 03/02/10 at 14:54:06 CST

I love my wife, she is my knife

The knife is my only true wife
She goes everywhere with me
Wherever I go
I take her with me
We do it together
We are synchronised
Poetry in motion

I strut, she cuts
I kiss, she kills
I kick she flicks
open

I like how she feels
I share her with people
I show her to their neck
and their hands and their arms
She caresses them with cold contempt

I love my wife, she is a knife
I love to dress her up in red
and watch it splash her head
Red all around her silver face

She's so easy to use
She never ever shouts at me
That one died first
She never leaves me
That was second
She never makes me jealous of her looks
He was third
Fourth was just in the way
I just wanted to play
She subtlely serenades skin
and then her teeth sink in

I love my knife, she is my wife.

Stay unstable it makes life interesting, it gets you through after you've loved and lost.

Abracadabra

Guardian of Shadows

Member Since: 11/13/09
Forum Posts: 633

Re: Challenge: Serial killer poem
Posted on: 03/02/10 at 16:27:25 CST

Almost Creative

A sharp blow to the head
ended her last drunken ride home
The man who wasn't her husband
was now in full control of the night
just the way he liked it
and his breathing became hurried
and harder
ending suddenly
with a low whimper

There was just one more thing he had to do
before it was over
and for him the cutting part
was the most rewarding of all
He could be tender and loving at last
for him it was almost creative

They were such small pieces of flesh
but he would carefully treasure
those softest of trophies
like precious jewels
preserving them forever

On a morning that began like any other
with his usual shortcut
a schoolboy met her first
The pale limbs draped over ragged brambles
at the edge of the park
dead white eyes staring up from her bed
and into his memory forever

Sporting the stiffest shop dummy smile
dabs of dried blood
in the corners of her mouth
competed for attention
with the remnants of her lipstick
in shades of deadest red

Not far away, but far in time
'Must Be Caught,
May Strike Anywhere'
cut out and kept old headlines
sit yellowing with age
nestling snugly behind the trophy jars
staring up from the mantelshelf
to be read and re-read
over and over again
saliva not blood
curling in the corners
of the smug mouth
that would always love
to be almost creative

Seems I'd forgotten about this one, Ray - only Priya commented last December - but anyone wishing to do so can find it at http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/poems/2678/

Poetry is : Painting with Words

priya dileep
(raindreams)

Fire of Insight

Member Since: 08/21/09
Forum Posts: 320

Re: Challenge: Serial killer poem
Posted on: 03/02/10 at 23:23:09 CST

Toodle-oo

Four-year olds of rich parents
are easy to find.
They just need a little more colour
beyond black and white nanny rules.

We have such fun together, mind you,
we go on a giggling spree
him and me,
as I throw him in the air
or let him do his road-runner victory-lap
over a smashed, smelly wiley coyote.
We lick chocolate pastry from our hands,
smear it everywhere
and together bury that nasty word guilt
and plant a bright red rose over it
still laughing mad.

And when he grows tired of fun
I rock him on my bare chest of many furrows
and sing a soft wee willie winkie
only half way through to kiss his wet thumb
and inhale his hair,
the sacred smell of happy dreams in his hair.
Thus when I whisper my toodle-oo,
he will fly safe on red wings
of happy boys with happy dreams
that just dont need to grow up.

The world is so dreary black and white
I just dab a little red on it
with my palette-knife.

anandosen

Thought Provoker

Member Since: 08/22/09
Forum Posts: 91

Re: Challenge: Serial killer poem
Posted on: 03/03/10 at 03:14:00 CST

a very interesting challenge...and a very difficult one for me...right now after particularly the reading of geniuses like abra-ca-dabra and Priya...yet I will try:-)

Anando Sen

Ceejay
(Astyanax)

Lost Thinker

Member Since: 02/23/10
Forum Posts: 14

Re: Challenge: Serial killer poem
Posted on: 03/03/10 at 07:07:58 CST

Black Widow

In threads of silk She hangs in wait,
Her hapless victims court their fate;
Around them, summer's flowers bloom,
Nature's glory, victims' doom.
They touch the web with carefree tread,
Alert, She feels the trembling thread;
The scuttling lunge, the terrible eyes,
The victim quivers, stiffens, dies.
With gossamer ropes She binds the kill,
She sucks the juices, takes her fill,
And leaves the tiny, blackened husk
Hanging in the gathering dusk.
Sated, deadly, proud, alone,
She hangs once more within her throne.
Unmoved by feelings, loves or hates,
The patient Widow sits and waits

Bee.
(penACTION)

Twisted Dreamer

Member Since: 11/06/09
Forum Posts: 71

Re: Challenge: Serial killer poem
Posted on: 03/03/10 at 10:32:17 CST

Guuuuh, I tried.

Angel, heavens,
42, Male, Surrey,
Standard wings
Butter the pavement.
Flutter.
Just like me,
No fingerprints. My twin.

Sin. That's me,
Ruby within,
And I let rip to this bottle
Like a neck,
Full throttle.
Prowling, growling,
Unstuck and unsure,

"Oh, what the heck",
Palm of my hand,
Plastic and serrated
Binoculars. Bag.
Running in tights,
Like the fag that I am.

Panting, bleating,
I'm feeling poor.
God's on the speakerphone,
"Repairs being saught,
Find it in isle four,"
Desperation, repairs
Automatic door on the fritz, once again,
Electronics in place
Of the gold here before.

You, me, one thousand.

And I wonder,
Will you sing so thick,
If I take this knife
And cut off your
Nose?

"Bee girl, you're gonna die. You don't wanna be famous, you wanna be shy.When the anxious is the present, unwrap your gifts, take your time. Everything you imagine needn't be stuck in your mind."

Challenge: Serial killer poem

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