deepundergroundpoetry.com
The Visitor - 6/7
XI
I know that she failed, or she'd still be alive
but not before waiting for him to arrive
he bids her "get up" in a voice she can tell
isn't sweet at all, but a prelude to Hell
she's slow standing up, feet bruised and unsteady
but manages to before mewling "I'm ready"
and then doubles over, every last muscle sore
and whispers "please, Sir, don't hit me anymore."
appeals to his ego (even kneeling a bit)
his expression changes, as if newly lit
and when he comes closer to give her a peck
she plunges the screwdriver into his neck
he backs away screaming, blood spews in a gush
she advances again, arms flail in a rush
but he's still too fast— he bursts from the room
leaving her shrieking with rage in her tomb
her sleep is unburdened by what she has done
but what will she do once he's gone? she can't run
the screwdriver's not going to break through her chains
she can't die in here - who will find her remains?
she sits and laments, wishing she would just die
giving up is the only thing she's yet to try
and maybe the truth is, it's better this way
death would be better than this, any day
she kneels on the floor with the weapon aloft
reflects on her misery, face dark and soft
closes her eyes, her arms shoving down hard
but an exploding pain in her head has her jarred
then the clank of a tire iron hitting the floor
she's bested again (must've snuck in the door)
her captor looms over her, covered in blood
she can see his old work boots, thickened with mud
from the hole he's dug out in the dark, lonely wood
she'll be buried in there, and then be gone for good
with a resigning whimper and with no debate
she closes her eyes and accepts her dark fate
the last sound she hears before going dull
is the squelch of the tire iron breaking her skull
his hands crush her throat with malevolent glee
I beg to stop here, but there's more yet to see
XII
the moment of death is a cold, lonely place
we all go alone to its frozen embrace
but sometimes there's business not quite finished yet
and the soul stays behind (such as little Collette)
call it a shade, or a phantom or ghost
if they want to do work, they must find a host
someone sympathetic (required for possession)
willing to act as a tool of expression
barring that, there's only one thing to do
get back in the body that belonged to you
there are a few risks when you dig your way free
your body rots faster (a horror to see)
Collette is afraid to c0nfront her attacker
and sought out my help as corporeal backer
now that she's told me the whole bloody tale
I feel like I have to help her not to fail
the plan is so simple, and yet I feel dread
she'll be inside my body (including my head)
a lot to take in -- I'm a little afraid
what if she got comfy in there, and just stayed?
but I'll remain loyal, and keep my composure
to give my poor friend her much-needed closure
standing perfectly still, I throw my arms wide
and I feel a cold chill as she burrows inside
I know what she saw, and I feel how she felt
each punch in the face, every bruise, every welt
rage surges through me-- but not for her sake
the countless girls out there that he dared to take
hands curled into fists, she imbues me with power
the walk to his house takes us less than an hour
an unkempt little shack with surrounding chain link
my senses (now heightened) can pick up a stink
the stench of death permeates this entire place
we come up the walk with her snarl on my face
pound on the door and await his response
he answers in boxers, with dim nonchalance
I don't say a word, I just stand there a bit
he asks "what do you want, you creepy lil' shit"
I answer him coldly (well, doing my best)
"you need to come with me. You're under arrest."
---
I know that she failed, or she'd still be alive
but not before waiting for him to arrive
he bids her "get up" in a voice she can tell
isn't sweet at all, but a prelude to Hell
she's slow standing up, feet bruised and unsteady
but manages to before mewling "I'm ready"
and then doubles over, every last muscle sore
and whispers "please, Sir, don't hit me anymore."
appeals to his ego (even kneeling a bit)
his expression changes, as if newly lit
and when he comes closer to give her a peck
she plunges the screwdriver into his neck
he backs away screaming, blood spews in a gush
she advances again, arms flail in a rush
but he's still too fast— he bursts from the room
leaving her shrieking with rage in her tomb
her sleep is unburdened by what she has done
but what will she do once he's gone? she can't run
the screwdriver's not going to break through her chains
she can't die in here - who will find her remains?
she sits and laments, wishing she would just die
giving up is the only thing she's yet to try
and maybe the truth is, it's better this way
death would be better than this, any day
she kneels on the floor with the weapon aloft
reflects on her misery, face dark and soft
closes her eyes, her arms shoving down hard
but an exploding pain in her head has her jarred
then the clank of a tire iron hitting the floor
she's bested again (must've snuck in the door)
her captor looms over her, covered in blood
she can see his old work boots, thickened with mud
from the hole he's dug out in the dark, lonely wood
she'll be buried in there, and then be gone for good
with a resigning whimper and with no debate
she closes her eyes and accepts her dark fate
the last sound she hears before going dull
is the squelch of the tire iron breaking her skull
his hands crush her throat with malevolent glee
I beg to stop here, but there's more yet to see
XII
the moment of death is a cold, lonely place
we all go alone to its frozen embrace
but sometimes there's business not quite finished yet
and the soul stays behind (such as little Collette)
call it a shade, or a phantom or ghost
if they want to do work, they must find a host
someone sympathetic (required for possession)
willing to act as a tool of expression
barring that, there's only one thing to do
get back in the body that belonged to you
there are a few risks when you dig your way free
your body rots faster (a horror to see)
Collette is afraid to c0nfront her attacker
and sought out my help as corporeal backer
now that she's told me the whole bloody tale
I feel like I have to help her not to fail
the plan is so simple, and yet I feel dread
she'll be inside my body (including my head)
a lot to take in -- I'm a little afraid
what if she got comfy in there, and just stayed?
but I'll remain loyal, and keep my composure
to give my poor friend her much-needed closure
standing perfectly still, I throw my arms wide
and I feel a cold chill as she burrows inside
I know what she saw, and I feel how she felt
each punch in the face, every bruise, every welt
rage surges through me-- but not for her sake
the countless girls out there that he dared to take
hands curled into fists, she imbues me with power
the walk to his house takes us less than an hour
an unkempt little shack with surrounding chain link
my senses (now heightened) can pick up a stink
the stench of death permeates this entire place
we come up the walk with her snarl on my face
pound on the door and await his response
he answers in boxers, with dim nonchalance
I don't say a word, I just stand there a bit
he asks "what do you want, you creepy lil' shit"
I answer him coldly (well, doing my best)
"you need to come with me. You're under arrest."
---
Published 29th Mar 2016
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