snap

Edge of your seat folks!
More like edge of the bed
Live screaming
Live streaming tears
Talk about true horror
It’s so loud
Too loud
Round and round
Only the hammers of hell drown
They fade out the noise

Stop beating yourself! but how?
How when your brain hates you

Dredging up an old fleshy skeletons
And they snap snap snap
They snap and snap and
It laughs while I squirm
While I scream and plead
Snap snap snap
Beat my own fists
Against the floor
Forehead against the bones
But it’s all agony from there

Alone at 4:48 am and I can’t breathe
Shiver and shake like a fever seizure
Listen to a voice suggesting solutions
But antidepressants are not the answer
They don’t stop the nightmares;
The clawing for leverage
To keep myself from falling
The gasping for air to keep from drowning
The search for glue to keep from falling to pieces
Or the quicksilver pain that follows on waking

©MelanieMcCurdie2017

Cover by Jerry Winnett (a work still in progress) Coming soon to Fear Front Publishing

In the small burg of Skull Creek, a death is on the prowl. Some say it is a copycat killer, out for his moment of fame, but Jacqueline DePasse and her diligent crew of detectives soon learn that it is so much more than a tribute to the only known and convicted female serial killer in captivity. Cathleen Carson. DePasse, with the assistance of crime reporter Jake Michaels and her team, soon discover that one victim survived and she will be the key, the one who must Roll the Beautiful Bones and stop a killer before he strikes again.

dying in a drowning embrace

Passion burns and she gasps
Earthshake quivering over a rigid rising
when he pulls the pleasure from her belly
Rhythmic motion of riding the ocean sighs

He watches desire rise from her chest
It’s a tsunami of tangled bodies
Her cries rise like a bird in flight
Both clinging to love
like a life preserver
While dying in a drowning embrace


©MelanieMcCurdie2017

Rolling the Beautiful Bones – coming soon to Fear Front Publishing

Throwing Stones

Let’s throw stones, shall we?

No? You do already –

Now, hard as you can

Throw them into the water

Watch the impact

Smash the mirror image and

Make the ripple  a reality

The splash is arterial spray

or your own tears

And you killed it

Did it feel good?   Did you enjoy it?

Do it again

Again

DO  IT  AGAIN

Beat that voice in your head into silence

Throw stones and punches

Over and over til your arm hurts

Cause those ripples that destroy the reflection

The cold clear sky reflects like

A slight mist on the surface of hell

It’s too pretty

Throw more stones

Make it ugly

Make it hurt

Do it again

Again

AGAIN, DO IT AGAIN

Why?!

Scream, Curse the sky

Throw rage to the river

Let it drown

Do Nothing

Let it die

cry

 

Hitting Home

You couldn’t help yourself, could you?

Just had to have it your way,
ply and plead over poetry
and broken, useless promises

Pretty words meant to crack veneer,
like stones on a still frozen pond,
you just kept hammering it home

It did too, hit home, believe it
a punch to the solar plexus
a knee to the box would’ve been kinder

I’m still standing, though bleeding out
still breathing, despite the arrows

You couldn’t help yourself, again

I say it’s bullshit, and a cop out.

lie to your heart, repeatedly
So you can keep lying to mine

Spreading lye on the memories
That meant something to me is cruel

It makes it ugly and I see
Enough horror in the mirror

Reality bites and it leaves
Scars behind that will never fade
A fact that’ll hit home for you

too

©MelanieMcCurdie

17361645_10154941696185851_7293769770284919478_n

hEaD oN a StIcK

Sky eye blue tee
You see, because,
I feel less, well…
Alone in it

Bury my head
in the pillow
last kiss goodnight
and hope to sleep
before I cry

*It rarely works*

Pray, prey, for light
A direction
From whatever
Omnipotent Entity
Chooses to answer

The Universe
Provides the proof
That I am not
by myself in
yet another fight,

The same battle
That I don’t want
To fight anymore

I’m tired, I guess

If all else fails …
At least tonight …

I can threaten
people with my
head on a stick …

That might be fun
*shrug*

The Sane Sanctuary

Thirty-two: there are thirty-two and they hang on the wall. What you ask?  My collection of grisly souvenirs, the last one is barely a month old and frankly, it’s starting to show little signs of decay  and putrefaction.  No matter what I use, I can never stop that first biological rebellion that would keep them perfect.

The walls are pristine white, at least they were once, but now they are marred, stained and marked by the drippings and droolings of crimson that remind me somehow of Dali.  Not that I care about much than the fragrance it leaves behind.  It is art, and it is gorgeous to me.

Am I insane? Perception counts for much I suppose.  We are all beasts, extent hominina and we were given teeth for a reason; to rend flesh from bone and ingest the delicious plasma proteins that sustain life.   Are you any different? I know that you eat too.  Are you better than I? Anyone would do what they had to, to survive if they were starving.

Granted, my actions would be frowned upon in boring polite society.  They would call it cannibalism, but I call it, living.  It is not society’s opinion that matters to me, and it never has. The only judgment that I fear comes from the ones whose thoughts of me really matter and they are the only ones who have the right to judge. Who? Those whom I grilled and gormandize, of course.  They sacrificed their lives to feed me.  And they stay in here, where I come to pray at their feet and beg for forgiveness.

This is my sane sanctuary, my quiet place and the only space of reflection that I have in the world.  Only here can I be myself and lay myself bare before those who know me best, and beg forgiveness of the ones that are a part of me.  Everything about them was delicious; their memories, their minds and their bodies.  They were so tasty and the recollection makes my mouth water.

They aren’t all unknown.  Several, admittedly, had people who loved them and that I will regret til the day I die.  I wonder, though, did they have the same concern for the steak they ate off the grill on Sunday afternoons? One doubts it.  The majority, however, have never been reported missing, or have had people on television with tearful eyes pleading for their return. Sad, isn’t it?

The first one though, she is my favorite, my best girl and I mean that.  We lived together for years while I hid my all but rabid desire to devour her.  My Love, she was so beautiful with her laser beam eyes that always managed to melt my defences.  All she had to do was put her always cool fingers on my cheek and smile into my face and I would turn into a puddle of goo.

My Angel; I met her when I was already dead and her life had just ended.  At first, she never seemed to stop weeping, and all I could do was wrap her in my arms and wait for her sobbing to slow and her bright bright eyes to meet mine in a clear and direct manner.  Eventually, the weeping ceased and her clear stares eventually became something of a signal to her desire.   Not that I complained, and never to her.

Now, her eye sockets are empty , devoid of the once vibrant colour that sparkled there. It happens with decay, but I didn’t let them dry and roll back into her empty noggin.  I couldn’t do that to her.  The holes leave a vacant glare that shivers my spine. I hate when she looks at me like that.

She watched me suffer, disgusted and horrified as I suppressed that need, when died inside night after night laying next to the woman I adored and smelling the luscious scent of her sleep warm flesh.  I smothered my desires while I loved her, and chose to bite and never to tear flesh.  I drew blood but I never drank what I spilled, although sometimes the urge was so overwhelming that I would shake with the paroxysms of bottled passion.

My Angel, I miss her so much that I swear I can still taste her on my lips.  That night, I tried to be gentle and I succeeded, at first.  I devoured her with my eyes until she was the one quivering.  I remember the way her skin ran with goose-flesh and her breasts quivered and the way she looked up at me with those wide eyes that always made me wild with need.  And then, she whispered inconceivable words that both stunned and made my fly a little tighter.

My Love, I had never truly wanted to – never her; I wanted to taste her but I couldn’t live without her.  There was no other option and I clenched my fists and howled at the ceiling.  Angel insisted I explain, allowing me to pull her into her arms and sit her nude on my lap while I stumbled through the horror that I had been holding back for so long.

Only then, feeling my anguish, did Angel see the error of her ways and her thoughts, and she repeated the same words she’d said before, this time with that sweet, secret smile that made my heart throb in its cage.  She gave herself over to me, willingly as her final act of love, as my first meal.  Angel lay back on the bed with her legs spread slightly and waited for me to begin.  She volunteered herself to my strong jaws, and smiled as I nibbled and licked along her inner thighs and screamed when bit into her supple skin, tore into it and buried my tongue as though it were her forever wet well.

She screamed in pleasure at her ecstasy and mine, begging and pleading at first then just howling nonsensically.  It was getting a bit much, the noise and she came alive beneath me when I punctured her eyes, and sucked them from her head like some rare delicacy.  They were as delicious in my mouth as they had been watching me from her beautiful face.

The release was too much for her, the delicate flower that she was, and her heart staggered its last beats like a trapped bird in a cage while her too white hands danced a final pas de deux in the air over my heart.  Ah memories.

You never forget the first, and she, my fragile Angel, was the first taste of freedom that I had savored.  Just as her kiss had been the one I based all others upon, the flavour of her young, lean healthy muscle was one that all others have paled in comparison of.  Angel, her hair was like spun glass, and she tasted like spring after a long, hard winter.  Her blood was reminiscent of early morning dew, so much so that imbibed it like a fine wine and the vitality danced on my tongue for hours after the fluid had been digested.

Gently, I filleted her lean flesh from her bones, and carefully wrapped her so that I could ingest her piecemeal over time, and I made her last as long as I could, until there was so little left that I cried when she was gone.  Angel was no more, in life but she still lives on here, hanging on the wall. She, though Angel’s head does not hold grey matter, not now but it is certainly not empty.  She had the most amazing mind and now her skull holds a secret, a hidden treasure.

Small jars, not quite canopic although I did get the idea from a documentary I watched on the television a few weeks before she gave herself to me.  It took sometime to find them, and eventually ordered a large number with the future in mind.   The first ones I filled with portions of her puréed organs and her exquisite, perfect brain.  The rest I ate in a stew with spring vegetables that turned out so well, I have used it repeatedly.

No other woman has come close to Angel, yet.  Some have resembled her, but that only occurred when I was missing her desperately.  Not one was her, or even had the same flavor.  They have all have tasted tainted, spoiled somehow, and the last made me vomit for days on end.  I had to dispose of the meat as I suspected that it was poisoned and nearly ended up in jail when a pissed off police officer decided my car looked worth inspecting.  It worked out for the best, however, and I convinced him to come home with me for a beer and a home cooked meal.

Perhaps, this one will be different.

©MelanieMcCurdie2017

Rolling the Beautiful Bones – coming soon to Fear Front Publishing

they said watch the horizon

up and down … up and down … up

the swells make my head explode
my heart aches in sympathy
for my stomach and my ears

look for the horizon
there is no shore out there
only water, and the –

burning alive, want water
but there is none to be had
surrounded by it and not
a drop to drink, its salted

there is another here and
we’re the last; not survivors,
we won’t unless help comes soon

we’re lost in the vastness
we will die on this damned raft
oh, i don’t want to be sick,

not again – i can’t afford –
leaking valuable fluids
it hurts and i want to die
but i don’t want to die

i won’t die if i just drink
squeeze my eyes shut against it
it’s a hallucination

the other looks different
shivering in my skin over
ripples of chilly fever

the other stares at me with
his mouth slightly open and
eyes dead in their watchfulness
i desperately need water

i feel like food, god help me
but I’m not food, i’m alone
i desperately need water

my tongue’s a sandpaper worm
i’m alone, surrounded by
water and the horizon

up and down … up and down … up

just water, the horizon
and the sun, it’s burning me
precious fluid lies waiting
stagnating in the other

it would slake the thirst but
my heart refutes what my
body demands quenched and quelled

so far to go, too far
saying it makes it real
rotting in his veins – tick tock

his body moves, sorta twitches
involuntarily, my
eyes on the cooling liquids
strength and survival, they said

strength and survival
i’m sorry, i’m so sorry
sorry, i don’t want to die

it gushes after the cut
after the small blade I pried
from the other’s stiff fingers
puncture the adust membrane

it’s water – it’s just water
believe that it’s red water

i press my lips on the slash
it’s like sucking through a straw
breathe in deep the red water

the blood, its only water
its just water, please god, please
its water, i’m so thirsty

up and down … up and down … up

i’m alone now and the sun
it burned when I threw him,
his husk, with a light splash
much like a funeral pyre

the sky is alive, on fire
molten water and the sky
they said watch the horizon,

just how long have i been here?
how many days, hours, minutes
the other is empty, gone

i can’t, please, please god i can’t
not anymore, just end me
pry the cup from my burnt lips
be kind to this poor sinner

non-believer, heretic
won’t you please take me home now
i have been a faithful son

how is it daybreak again
the horizon is on fire
how many days has it been

nothing seems real anymore
the surreal sense of living
i remember so little
nothing but that god damned hole

i remember the screaming
killing, there were dead people
so much blood and so much death

and the lifeboats were all gone
everyone left us or died
those sonsabitches left us!

then there were only we two
the other and me we found
this inflatable dinghy
and we jumped and we floated

drifting on sea vomit when
our vessel, it exploded
there was a fire after

and the boat, she broke apart
on the surface and the wind
and the force of it pushed us

we were only frightened boys
and now there is only me
surrounded by water and
not a drop to drink

up and down … up and down … up

i pray to every god
i prey to the Other
i look at the horizon

beg and plead for a rescue
i’m so thirsty and tired
please god, please show me mercy

i can’t do this much longer
my flesh is no longer pink
but mottled brackish purple
my skin hurts just to breathe, even
my teeth, my mind whimpers softly

up and down … up and down … up

my guts are heaving sickness
desperate to be ill
but you can’t throw up nothing

i need fluids, some water
surrounded by water, but
there is never a shoreline

no shore, just the horizon
look to the horizon
they said watch the horizon

©MelanieMcCurdie2017

Rolling the Beautiful Bones – coming soon to Fear Front Publishing

Home Fires Burning

Once i was home.

i was home to my family
my body housed life and suffered death
i lay in solitude, listening to him breath
listening to the quiet ticking of the clock.

it was Tuesday, late when
he staggered to our bed
still wearing that damned fedora
and her perfume
and nothing else

i was lonely, and miserable that night
crying in the dark with my eyes closed,
while he rode the waves of pleasure
and i could smell her all over him

i felt so small
my fingers tracing the scratches she left behind
when he came, it was inside me
calling her name and
it scalded like tears
when he rolled away,
murmuring her name again
as he drifted to sleep.

i lay alone, last Tuesday
shivering in the lightness room
in an effort to be silent, in mourning
i just wanted contact
i needed to be warm
i needed to feel something
other than the numb cold

stuck struggling with the knowledge
that he was elsewhere, often
wondering why i’m not enough
trapped here, while he snores

it is Tuesday evening, again
i pace the gleaming wooden floors
eyes on the clock on the mantel
eyes on the front door.
I made this hell a home

there are no children
to fill the empty hallways
the long empty days last forever
and when night falls,
the cobwebs flutter and
the ghosts flitter through
the in-between spaces

they dance and knock on the walls
sometimes they cast shadows on the glass
they become people with the endless chatter
endless opinions
endless questions
unable to grasp my sorrow
but with a solution

so today, I hid in the darkened parlour
choosing to stop the insistent fight
and let my sanity skip and slip
I drank champagne and ate oranges
danced barefoot on the thorny line
where my sanity capered and
cried until I laughed

i’m still laughing

he begs and pleads from the bed
wearing that stupid fedora

there, where I said my last goodbye
where I painted it with my tongue and
carved my name into his flesh
when he filled me with his tainted seed

the air is heavy
with the scent of fire, and ringing screams

Outside the sirens wail and
inside, he thrashes and writhes
burning in our bed

i watch him struggle
fingering the stem
of my champagne glass and
lift my other hand
placing it under my chin
in thought and reflection

then pull the trigger with a smile

The Statue of She

She sits in silence,

her eyes closed with a

sweet distracted smile on her lips

Oh, she pretends to blend in

with the crowd and fails

He says that she wasn’t meant to

but stand out like a glorious statue

in the middle of a war-torn slum

And she is so blissfully unaware

of the watchful, covetous stares

they do not register, only his does

At the mention of her name,

the sapphire lasers flicker open

blushing at being caught

with her mind wandering

Her eyes bore holes into his

with a flicker of laughter

embarrassed she looks away

with a sigh and a flush

Closing her pretty eyes again

as though her actions are

an invisibility cloak

He can’t understand how

she can’t see that she is beautiful

That insecure creature with a

masque crazy glued in place

She doesn’t understand that when

the masque lifts, and the

makeup is washed way

That she shines like the devil

dressed in Angel’s wings

©MelanieMcCurdie2017

Sometimes, when i’m alone/
almost by myself cos ghosts/
i wear pink with no makeup/
and let my hair go curly/
and pretend that i’m a warm/
blooded, a soft hearted girl/
instead of the cold minded/
all but invisible weirdo/
laying shrouded in bubbles/
adding salt to the water/
that is the truer image/
floating on the razors edge.

©MelanieMcCurdie2017

the chesterfield

I used to overflow

Sitting on a sofa
Chesterfield
Couch, whatever.

Thighs spilled over edges
Although not a lot
And my gut filled my lap
More than the kids ever did
Shortness of breath from walking
Down the street was more common
Than breathlessness for any other reason

Today I sat in the same place
On different furniture
In the corner and
I barely filled half of the cushion

Nothing to spill over
And there was room on my lap
for my bigger baby boy
And the mutt
Although not a lot

Having no air comes from
Beauty rather than fear of death
From lack of breath

Somehow, even with my hands
Resting on the new points
and jutting edges
And the image that the mirror shows
I still don’t feel like me

©MelanieMcCurdie2017