Challenge: Serial killer poem

Stubble
Five o'clock shadow
from two days ago
smoking
leaning against a wall
crumbling into deterioration
tie askew, breifcase aside
jacket open, cuffs undone

He does not see

hands in pockets
Coming closer, closer
approaching the man
just a part of the desolate scenery

he does not see

silver spoon in pocket
silver spoon in hand
other hand take him out
Oh my dear friend (convenient alleyway)
Drag him there

He does not see

Take out eyes
bloody silver spoon
one in each pocket
silver spoon (wiped clean on jacket)
put on chest

He does not see

Leave him there
for the cops
for the innocent bystander first
(lose a lunch if in luck)
over number five
even though they never saw
1,
2,
3,
or even 4,
(he was a tough one)
but they lose it over 5
(easiest one)

They never caught that guy
they guy who did it
Never will pretty sure
Then again biased teachers teach incoherently
is this incoherent?

Who cares

He does not see

[cont]

try again tomorrow
maybe
or next week

for number six


Title: Number Five

Two feathers on the Road: Interview with a Serial Killer




people don't hear each other

we talk to each other

but very seldom do we
communicate

at what point
can we get our heads together?

crime factories
are buying and selling crime

you put this image up, and say:

here kids, don't be like this

now you can say no, but
the kids are thinking:

I didn't know I could say yes

they are projecting the thought

the premise of reality
sits on the judge's benches

the judge's benches represent crime

the police --
represent the will of the judge

the attorney general, the governor
all the way up to the pentagon
all the way to where the bombs
drop on rice farmers

it all starts down here
on the court room floor

they need criminals --

and if they didn't have them,
they wouldn't be able
to sell more fear to the public

our social conscious is
out of balance

everything is in thought

I am the thought

I'm reaping your heads
in thought

you need me to be violent
because you want your ass kicked
you need me to be a killer
because you want to die

it's got nothing to do with me

I reflect the will of god, son
I'll give you anything I've got
for a little piece of mind

call it jesus
call it mohammad
call it your heart
call it nuclear mind
call it the end of the world

call it whatever you want
it's still music to me

there's a reverse side to everything

they crowd me
and all I got is this little space
my life is bigger than this little space

I live in the desert
I live in the mountains

I'm negative and positive
I'm everything

I'm a lizard on a rock
a coyote in the night
a bug in the bushes

I'm a man of the street

a beatnik
a bum, a hobo

I'm a boxcar and a jug of wine
and if you get too close to me

I'm a razor

I am the street

I'm whatever I have to be to survive
survival takes precedence over programming

I'm gonna kill you as many as I can
I'm gonna pile you up to the sky
and if I can kill about 50 million, of you
I might be able to save:

my trees
my air
my water
my wildlife

that's just a drop in the bucket
to whats really coming

I'm in harmony with the truth

I don't break laws
I make laws

I'm the law maker

I'm the one
that laid the track down

you drive the train

in one court room
you convicted me
for being Jesus Christ

and in another:

you convicted me
for being the devil

right or wrong
history will wheel it

you're creating -- a legend
you're creating -- a beast

I'm whatever you need me to be, for you
and whatever you make me
is whatever you will have to carry
for the rest of your life and forever

I've got two feathers on the road already


~Charlie


http://www.myptsmail.com/hotdog256/blog/wp-content/uploads/2009/08/charles_manson.jpg


*based on actual transcripts, circa 1987, of an interview with Charles Milles Manson*

I've always appreciated Charles for his intelligence and poetic flair.
Though, technically, he's not really a serial or mass killer,
just someone with great leadership abilities. Thank goodness
he missed his true calling as a politician.



"I'm gonna kill you as many as I can
I'm gonna pile you up to the sky
and if I can kill about 50 million, of you
I might be able to save:

my trees
my air
my water
my wildlife"


and gee, when put that way, it seems only fair
(though using "my" IS a bit creepy)

acrostic haiku IIX

Paced with prey's movements,
Reveling in the hunt's thrill.
Eventually...
n
s
n
a
r
e
Descending upon
A thing drenched in fear's perfume,
Taking what is mine.
a
b
o
Once her breathing stops,
Regretanbly, it is done;
Yet, i'll hunt again...

I might sound quite strange in posting this one in this category, however, I have my own standing and once you read this one, I am sure you can somewhere connect this one to the category...

The Psychopath who called himself a Serial Killer...

Certain things remain a mystery in life-
And I relived those moments till my last hour,
Like the pungent suffocation that choked one day,
So that I could be stopped killing me long before.

It started from the day I could remember-
When I killed myself amidst numerous tortures,
That played inside me when I lost in swimming,
To my best friend, I was compared, scolded, insulted in overture…

There was no end to my killings-
One, two, three…each and every girl rejected me,
When I proposed to them in school bets,
One of them told me, I was sick…
I lost confidence of my virility and almost killed myself.

The day my mom and dad separated-
I chose to live alone and I killed myself.
I decided not to marry, and will live a solitary life,
I had no peace, no solitude and was almost,
Jealous every time, and seeing others happy with their family.

There was no end to my sufferings-
My meager life-time saving was sunk,
In the share market during recession, I killed myself…
I locked myself in a room, and masturbated when felt hungry,
And received shocking advises from them whom I owed nothing.

And then one day I learned-
That I was destined to loose, but why?
I was accused of serial theft in my defense-store job…
This time I decided to end it all, I killed myself believing that-
Certain things remain a mystery in life.

Well again this one is an out of my stuff work and at the end of the day I have liked the way it has shaped up.
There is nothing to summarize for me as the script is plain and simple from the point of view of a so called psychopath who had his own reasons behind. Each and every time he lost in his life, he was forced to move ahead in life, even though he could not forget them. So he maintained his diary titled “The Serial Killer…”, and jotted down such events and the last line he always used to write was, “…killed myself” which he used as his motivation pill to get ready for his next mishap. Little good things happened to him like one in the second last line in the poem where he decided to kill himself for the last time and stopped understanding things which could not explain him.

F***ing WOW!  My favs in this so far have been:
Priya dileep
Abracadabra
Jack Heslop
Silicone_Baby
Cayleigh
teop


After having done some research on serial killers I wrote a song for my (now over) band, Code Atom.

Whisper

Dear God,
I want to kill, I want to kill
It hurts so bad
I want to kill, I want to kill
Closer than a guarded secret
Tonight
Loud enough for you to hear it
Tonight, I swear
In the dead of night I
[chorus] Whisper a prayer
        For everyone I hurt
        A tearful confession
        This is a prayer
        For everyone at first
        I’m sure they've learned their lesson
        By now              
I want to kill, I want to kill
Take my hand
I want to kill, I want to kill
Closer than a guarded secret
Tonight
Close enough, I still can’t feel it
Tonight I swear
In the dead of night I
[chorus] Whisper a prayer
        For everyone I hurt
        A tearful confession
        This is a prayer
        For everyone at first
        I’m sure they've learned their lesson
        By now              
By now they know not to fuck with me
Taking, even if they have to give
In the dead of night I
Whisper a prayer for you to hear
In the dead of night I
Whisper, a prayer
[chorus] Whisper a prayer
        For everyone I hurt
        A tearful confession
        This is a prayer
        For everyone at first
        I’m sure they've learned their lesson
        By now    
Whisper a prayer for me.
Whisper a prayer for me.
Whisper a prayer.
Whisper a prayer for me…          


Pretty simple really.  Way too simple in comparison to what's been written here.  You guys are all amazing!

Stendhal Syndrome*
*a condition where sane people momentarily lose all sense of reason and attack a work of art.

I wrench his jeans down to his knees,
push him back, astride the grass -
those complacent witnesses, greener
than a hippie’s stove, more boring
than your dear daddy - and kiss his fragile neck.

such a beauteous specimen! no doubt
a veteran of park bathrooms, cinemas
and alleyways, the stereotypical “confused”
youth. I’ve seen his kind three times before,
and committed their souls to media lore.

in expectance of my kiss, the young man
trembles fierce; I slip an arm beneath his waist,
lay down abreast his thin torso, and offer
him my prized left fist, wrapped in my sleeve
like a birthday present, to soften the blow, the blow.

inside the Louvre, a woman throws a mug
at the Mona Lisa; the mystery smile
vanishes beneath a tide of stale coffee,
firm beans ground by coarse black hands
soil the lady’s serenity.

a man takes a chisel to Michelango’s David;
hacking at those marble thighs, he trashes
the Adonis with a mercenaries’ skill,
tearing the muscles like sugar paper,
releasing his manhood with one simple swoop.

whilst on a lonely farmer’s field, my fists make
sweet delight of this lad’s pure pubescent’s grin,
his nineteen-year old chin, the dimples crushed
like church crackers, beneath an atheist’s
cruel fist. I have taken something beautiful.

Pretty hair, such pretty hair, I love their hair,
Silky, shinny and smooth, their hair I must wear,
Black and blond, brown and red,hehe,oops, their dead,
Slit and chop, cut and slice, just watch their head,
Once, twice, thrice,hehe, they cry, scream and shout,  
But their hair would be my hair, there was no doubt,
First they tell me no, then they ask pretty please,
Then they fight back so very hard, only to be displeased,
That the knife slips right in, piercing filthy flesh,
Then they gasp, eyes so wide,hehe,their fear so fresh,
That's when I do my work, my fancy art, my disease,
Separating skin from scalp, their hair such a tease,
My new hair, giddy and happy I cut with a grin,
Blood down her chin, this new one was a lovely win,
Ripping, tearing, separating her scalp from skull,
I pull off my prize and the excitement has gone dull,
The stupid whore is still alive, she gurgles up some blood,
I stab! and I stab! till her blood begins to flood,
She wasn't worthy, now the stupid bitch is dead, hehe,
Her hair looking so pretty on my head, Don't you girls agree?

[font=Times New Roman]Another missing person bares your face.
They will find her at our sacred place
where I do those secret things I do
to retry the day
I tried to say,
"I love you."

They brow-beat me down, and I get the gist,
and I'd really like to go straight,
but that road is so twisted.
The destination: right, gets lost with the blue;
so I'll stray
the other way
and say,
"I love you."

I paint your picture my own way
to capture how you were before that day.
Any model just wont do
when I try to find another one of you.

Still, I dig her beautiful Black Dahlia smile:
makes me want to stick around- cut up for awhile.
Then, I'll carry home a souvenir or two
to remind me
of the time
I tried
to love you.

Your their always lurking
I just wanted to play
But you screamed and shouted
I had to shut you up

So I took the knife
Slice
I know I shouldn't have

But you just wouldn't stop
I had to make the noise go away.

Now you lay there eyes wide open.
I whisper I'm sorry
I walk to the door and turn
Time to kill again

Trapt with her.

She feeds me,
She bathes me,
She knows not the colour of my eyes,
We've met some several times,
Crossing paths though it's rare we speak.
She fools people,
Into believing I am she,
They think that her deeds are my own.
She laughs at me.
I can hear her,
A soft echoing in my ear,
As she twists the tap and rubs my hands,
Away goes the red liquid she put there,
She makes me watch when she kills them,
Slashing away any distingushing features,
The man asks me why I did it,
He doesn't listen, it isn't me.
She tells me to admit to it,
All thirty-seven of her crimes.
She says it will gentle the blow,
I don't trust her.
She puts the imagery in my head,
Of jumping across the table,
And stabbing the man before me,
In the throat with the pen in my pocket,
I ask her, without speaking,
To stop these wicked games,
I did not want to hurt those people,
But she says we're one of the same.
She says I am her favourite conquest,
When I take my own life in the bathroom,
The police find only me there,
She has left me to die alone.

a mound of souls .....overflowing in this room
the hours spent....becoming fluint in the art of death
amputations from your breathing body ..... carefull not to bleed you out
this could go on for days ...stay with me in these dark lit hours
slicing the lips off your face
permanent desplay of teeth ....no more expressions
your eyes will tell this story now
audible incyndieries.... decending down the tones of horror and pain
blanket me with your screams ...overcome me with chills
make my blood burn....ever faster its course
i am a monster fluent in the art of death
amputations from your breathing body ...carefull not to bleed you out
palipitations in your chest weaken ....skipping further from the timing of life
exiduse is cunning....apple of my iris....hollow and detatched
like your many body parts...enlightened by killing ....taken apart piece by piece
the certainty you caused it all .... your hands were the force behind the maddness
beneath the swinging lights .... clots will form on the tools of your distruction

perplexed and plagued
her death,depraved
erotism
rotting skin
fraught with clots
and crawling things

bear witness
to my depraved task
she's scared shitless
but she's clad in a brave mask
i admire that in a whore
fire sets in her pores

i'm trapped in he ruby lair
as i scratch her pubic hair
in the process
i rip off flesh
for tissue sampling