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

tItHe AnD tImE

I was a good and faithful daughter.

I paid my tithe and I paid my time
and I paid my dues
I payed for my sins and
prayed for my soul
prayed for forgiveness
for sins I hadn’t committed yet
All because my ancestors
grandparents, my parents, did
because a man in a robe told me I should
I must, he said –
You must
Now your head and pray for forgiveness
Pray for your sins to be washed away
Pray for your eternal reward

Pray?
Pray to what?
To whom?
Pray to a God that professed
His Love
His devotion in return for mine
For His Forgiveness
But stood idly watching
Floated by on His Heavenly Perch
Waiting while I suffered
Like some Silent Stalkery Saviour
While I pled and pleaded

God,
Our Father.
My Father
Help me be a better person
Help him not be angry anymore
I don’t understand what I’m doing wrong
I know I deserve it but I don’t know why

Save Me
Please don’t forsake me
God Please Make It Stop
I’ll pray harder
I’ll Do Better
I’ll do anything
God, please

The mindless begging
Became a realisation that
I am and was my own God
My own Saviour

I Saved Me.
No one else did


©MelanieMcCurdie2017

Timpani drums

If you have never grieved,
If you have never denied
the finality of reality
If you have never felt the
Timpani drums of your heart
Pounding and screaming in your ears
NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO
and felt the weight of Reaper’s
sad, lonely gaze on your soul
Then you have no business
telling somebody else
how to mourn

©MelanieMcCurdie

If I had a penis

– Dedicated to all my sisters who know they damned well feel the same way and especially for those won’t admit it –

DISCLAI

If I had a penis for just one day:

 

In the spirit of truthfulness…I’d think with it at least twice

 

and spend the early morning in bed alone with it, too

 

Plus, let’s face it ladies,

how often will we have the opportunity 

to learn to write our names 

in the snow?

 

I’d probably join the girls for coffee, to compare

and swing it around a little because it looks like fun….

 

But then I’d be bored and so in retrospect,

 

no.

©MelanieMcCurdie2017

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New Bones

Someone asked me what I feel,
And to my own fault I responded
The only way that I know how.
Only Haywire live wire seemed apt.
It makes no sense, perhaps,
To anyone but me
But that’s what it feels like.
It’s as though my bones have been replaced
And the new ones simply vibrate
Until my teeth rattle.
It’s oppressive and I’m trapped
By unseen eyes that observe
Every step, every breath
Someone is always there and it’s no comfort
Nor replacement for flesh and blood.
It’s uneasy the way the world is imploding
and the people are discussing politics
Issues of no consequence.
Leaves me to wonder what happens
What to those of us awake
When it ends.

©MelanieMcCurdie

The Eyeless Prophet

I swear this is mostly a true story.   I’m in the kitchen and there’s a man in the lawn. The same eyeless prophet outside my window that I always see.  He shimmers, shivering, just standing there watching me with a mindless smile. Tonight, every night, and he’s everywhere, I swear it, in every place I go.  Behind the door or on the stair, in the mirror glare.

No matter where, impossibly, he’s there and I sense this seemingly sane man would speak if given the platform but he never utters a word. Not one. Not once. Not of grievance nor gratitude; he offers only silence as reward for concern.

But I digress. It’s a mess and I’m beginning to feel nervous and somewhat fretful. Prophet he may be – he told me once in a dream where we were sipping cocktails on the Vegas strip that Prophets aren’t in it for Profit. I told him he was a weirdo and then I woke up – he was human then and maybe still is, I’m not sure.

He doesn’t frighten me. I’m no mewling kitten afraid of it’s own shadow, and I suppose I have reason to be worried a smidge. But he doesn’t frighten me … not nearly as much as the knife wielding freakazoid sneaking up behind him.

©MelanieMcCurdie2016

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I warned you that I’d write a poem…

The sounds of silence.

There is no such thing
In reality.
Why? You are human.
Noise comes naturally
Y’know that crack’lin?
That rapid rushing
When hear something
And you are alone?

That’s the cry of your nervous system

How about that thud
That beats in your ears…
Can’t you hear it now?
Boom (pause) Boom (pause) (pause)
BOOM and your heart screams

That’s the song of your heart pumping blood through your veins

Silence is a misnomer for sound

©MelanieMcCurdie2016

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Coming Undone

Folklore and childhood tales vary from family to family and certainly in this case it is no different. Those dark tales told by firelight sometimes become tangible and the unknown becomes frighteningly real. For 30 year old Dee Carpenter, it is a perfectly warm Saturday in June and Dee and her live in boyfriend are celebrating her birthday in the backyard with friends and family.

*a bright kitchen – a small dog scampers into the room with its nails clicking on the tiles. –laughing and party sounds from outside – classic rock music.  Small dog sniffs along the floor and growls at the window when a shadow passes by. On the counter a black cordless phone  begins to ring.  The handle of the door rattles slightly and stops*

Francis:  And where are you going birthday girl?  Come on Dee,  you promised.  No calls til tomorrow. You’re always on the damned phone.  Don’t roll your eyes at me.

Dee:  (annoyed) You just love to torture me don’t you? It could be important, like the that guy in scary movie calling to save me from you.

Frances: (with a nasty laugh)   You wish it was, and you love it.  Come on honey.  Just for a few more hours okay?  Everyone came for you, not to see you on the horn.

Dee:  Fine. But it’s your fault if I die.

*inside –  answering machine interrupts *

Dee’s Voice: (in weird voice)  Greetings Earthlings! I’m out of my mind right now, and Francis isn’t far behind.

Are you sure you couldn’t have texted instead? *giggle* do whatcha gotta! Ciao!

 *answering machine beeps.  a gasp and a woman’s shaky voice*

Cora: DEE? God Dee, I need you, please pick up? Jesus…  *click and hiss of a lighter followed by a shaky inhale*

Dee, It’s Cora. (coughing fit) Fuck me I gotta quit these things.   Okay,  I know it’s been a while so don’t be hard on me. I emailed you on Friday so you can’t complain too hard. Dee, please pick up the phone.  Something’s happened. I’m not sure exactly how explain it and I could and will call back to explain, if I can, but you need to know that I put this in a letter and sent it to you. I may not be able to call if – This needs to be in writing. It’s going to sound nuts, like you expected any less, but I mean really nuts and it’s true. I swear on my life it is. On my own grave even.

*drinking sound – wheeze and cough from Cora*

Cora: I really wish you had answered Dee.  I’ll call back later, if I can.  I love you Dee.   Happy Birthday.

*call disconnect – dial tone*

outside – Dee – NO DON’T YOU DA- *a scream, a splash and laughter*

Unknown Female voice:  Francis ain’t getting any tonight for that *giggle* She loves that dress.

inside – Dog barks and howls at the door. Scratches and whines in a fretful way.

*deeper in the house – slamming door – soft dark chuckle – dog whines louder*

*Break in the music – Phone rings three times –

Francis’ Voice: (deep)  You’ve reached Francis and Dee.  Dee can’t come to the phone right now. I have her tied up in the basement…(muffled noise) Just kidding! We’re busy.  You know what to do (evil chuckle) Coming dear! 

Cora:  For fuck sake, can’t you two do anything normal? Dee, it can’t wait and you need to pick up the phone!  This is so frustrating! (growls) You know that story mum used to tell us about Gramma and great-Gramma and so on? About how they all just fell to pieces and died too young? I’m hoping against hope and praying you remember or I will sound well and truly bonkers.  I’m not convinced I’m not crazy.

I never believed a word of it you know. Not even that first time.  Do you remember? We were maybe four or five and mum had invited you for a slumber party.  I know Aunt Cate hated that Mum loved all that scary stuff but for some reason said yes when mum called (laughs sadly) usually it was a big old Hell NO! Anyway, it was right near Halloween and the house and yard were decorated with pumpkins and zombies and those fuzzy bats she hung from the trees.

*amused chuckle and inhale*

Francis: *opens door* I’m just going inside for a second!  (muffled voice) I need to get more beer!  Okay Mom okay, I’ll go through the garage.  27 years old and I still get told what to do by my mother – yeah yeah I’m goin!

Cora: Mum let us help make rice krispy squares in her coffin tin and we decorated them with bones and flowers. You were so scared of the bones. Anyway, that night mum lit the fireplace and we gorged ourselves on sweet stuff while she told us that story. It was little more than a delicious wasn’t it? Knowing your mother would disapprove, and somehow that made it even scarier. Dee, WHERE ARE YOU? God.  *sniffling* I need you. I’m scared and I need you.

I just didn’t believe it when my mum told me about how all Alexander women, what were the words, “come undone and die on the floor.” It’s creepy as fuck and dammit Dee- where the hell are you?! *quiet sobbing* The one time I really need you and –

Francis: *opens door* Okay Mom okay, I’ll go through the garage.  (to self) 27 years old and I still get told what to do by my mother – yeah yeah I’m goin!

*loud rattling in the background*

Cora:  (scared tone) What the hell is that?!

Dee, honey, I’m sorry to call today with this but mum’s gone. I found her tonight when I came round to bring her dinner. She’d been wearing a bandage on her ear for a few days and she just wouldn’t talk about it. She wouldn’t let me look either.  I was going to force her to come to the doctor with me this morning.  She was fine when I arrived; she had made me my favourite breakfast, from when I was five, and reminded me of that story.

She seemed fine otherwise but that bandage was bothering me and when I told her about the doctor she ripped off that thing and *a scream followed by choking sounds and heavy breathing –a trembling breath*

Unknown Breathy voice: deeeeee

Cora: OH FUCK DEE!!! 

*dial tone*

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©MelanieMcCurdie2016

Black Orchid

Draped like breathing silk

Ivory skin, ivory keys

Raven tresses decoration

Play me, she whispers

Eyes averted, nervous

Black Orchid

No shrinking violet, she shivers

Speak her name

Watch her fracture, smile

A heady concoction

Igneous she burns

Your hand, Eruption

Detonation: Ground Zero

Her eyes

·

@MelanieMcCurdie2015

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y dyn cuddio

I can’t help but think of him

Even as I close my eyes
His face looms in my mind
Oh the way they glow
His eyes full of every terrible
Beautiful form of torture that exists
In our crazy fucked up world
And I know he would kill me
In kindness and in reality
In deliciously brutal fashion
And I know I would welcome it
As I did once upon a time
As much as I would now
Voluntary sacrifice to his embrace
Like exposing my throat to his rapier blade
Laughing as I bleed out
And begging for still more even as I die

I just can’t help but think of him

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The One

The bumblebee hums
Dipping and dancing
Around the sweetest bloom
Stealing nectar
And so the lesson
Master teaches
Erotic vibrations
Deeper then the blade’s song
His strength brings pleasure
Small deaths
Blood rushing
He is your undoing
The One

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TTPG edited-1

A Matt Farnsworth Film The Orphan Killer 2 Bound x Blood Full Fathom 5 Studios
A Matt Farnsworth Film
The Orphan Killer 2
Bound x Blood
Coming in 2015 Full Fathom 5 Studios
“The characters Marcus Miller, and Babysister are owned by  Matt Farnsworth”
©™ Full Fathom 5 Productions LLC
Full Fathom 5 Productions LLC All Rights Reserved