Part One:
This is George.
This was George...
He set the coffee pot along the marble finished oven top;
Page 3 news and a plate of two hardly finished muffin tops.
Watches the steam pour out from under the bathroom door;
his wife lights the mood-
as a shower tune blasts right through the floors:
'Oh George! coooooome and get yoooooour...'
He picks up his drink, takes a sip/sits up and smiles quick-
before he stands/dances to the sample clip with wild kicks;
Dueling giggles power through- he sneaks into the shower
room and the two playfully kiss as he stops hastily-
and quickly sits down next to the flower printed broom.
He falls and throws his breath below the end of this song-Chapter I: Mr. Feel Nothing
He bore the misery's sage of delineate days reborn;
more history in his three steps than in the age we wore.
Checkered pasts remain the lost way on feathered tracks
a train of thought forgot to check/mates entered last-
he paused at the fork in awe before he sat and ate.
Primal over civil- alittle wine and bind, put aside the middle;
spilling vinyl fetish against the silhouette of candle lit vigil.
Malice by definition; twisted instinct and high intellect-
by the time you regain balance, he's underlining sex.
His bliss is absurd-
with perched lips and soggy phallice, he's earning stitches;
learning the art of heart while he sits there burning bridges.
He wore the thin light's lite reform like a mid wife-
within poor sight he swore to his life's resistance...
behind the fine eye and a midnight description:
Socially-synical sociopath-
masked in madlibs and lipstick,
mascara plastered on his right backhand
from the last one night stand.
Giggles in the open blisters
from rough innuendoes broken linger,
through the concuss lingerie
he saved in the middle of an open fist for
a sniff and quick quiver later in the day.
with a cold sweat rolling down, and his head in his palms.
Covering his ears, he doesn't want to hear the mumblingHe songed a name below the bondage banquets,
imprinted rope, and blades along a slate of plain wrists:
Beyond the broken sores, door alarms and tales of porn-
he whispered 'whooores,' while they whimpered, 'Geooooorge!'
narratives spilling from the air! Tears start tumbling
down his pale canvas, the ceiling closes in; his air goes thin!
'SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!'
His startled wife jumps/rips the curtains right open,
slips- in a hurry to run to his comfort as the lights go dim.
He rocks away, back and forth and forth toward disarray;Chapter II: Females for Sale!
The ominous slaughter- daughters forgot in his promise;
every word you wanted to hear and a tear from thick onyx.
He's watching- insecure girls, and he's a word of comfort
in a winners world/Jaguar car while tossing shores of pearl.
Same stories in a different chapter of novels after-
his laughter is the ink as he winks a signature past her.
she's bleeding and he's hardly breathing any more this way!
His hands are shaking harder and harder
and his mouth is now dry- his eyes begin to water;
one hand on his wife's damp head, the other on the left
trying to toss a cotton ball...
to stop all the voices from talking in his head!
He beats his own skull into a pulp fiction,Another night settles to a new bar room chronicle:
glasses back as he finds a model master mold-
from the round bottom of the brown bottle barstool monocle.
His twisted grin curls around the girl as he sends a drink:
That's his in- kind gesture for the little girl behind the texture.
Tonight is lady's night, and he's feels all right-
Common talk tiptoes into throwing clothes off/on
the bed post she moans with one lip lost/gone-
swallowed with the pleasure... although his laughs gone;
the smile lines mangle and the angle make her head hurt-
she gashes her head more on the plastic head board.
She's starting to cry- his smile returns as her heart drops
'Please stop!'
his diction is slurred and every word he utters is wrong-
'I didn't mean to! are you hot- alright, are you alright!?'
His stair tapers- paces the tile lanes fighting a smile
that the narrator in his head said was growing greater.
His finger tips gel between his hair fibers as he screams!
Releases- her head starts to twitch hard as she bleeds.
...thou among women,Chapter III: Oak Trees, Leaves; Dead Bodies.
George's eyes find the borderline of their form-
as he climax's she passes/gives a final scared squirm.
He pulls out and pulls out a last kiss for her glass lips;
inches over and holds her hand- taps her ass quick.
He sits there for an hour, starring as his workmanship-
she was his magnum opus coded in saran covered strips.
Gutted and savored as he licked all his fingers,
saying a prayer at the final tare of his falling razor:
'Hail Mary,
Full of Grace,
The Lord is with thee.
Blessed art
and blessed is the fruit
of thy womb, Jesus.
Holy Mary,
Mother of God,
pray for us sinners now,
and at the hour of death. Amen.'
He prays and prays, but she just keeps bleeding still-
screaming Jesus' name for forgiveness of the kill...
'Wait! No!' He didn't even kill her though!
Off between narration and sensation, he's lost-Keeps singing back those hymns as he wraps his sin-
licks her clit one last time as her fair flower just collapses.
The cadaver still fresh with red chest under the laughter,
covered with cellophane as the cello rains a lover's last word-
from the speaker box the 5th symphony eases off;
he pauses, and plays conductor before proceeding on.
he doesn't know which ideas he has thought.
'No!' he wont do it he proclaims with exclamation-After he finished spinning the cadaver's plastic morbid,
he searched his mind for a hiding place-
a place of bind and blackness, thatches and twine... that forrest!
He throws the body on his back and laughs,
cackles with the crows that roamed the damned's thatch.
subconsciously teething at the thought of grave and decimation!
One hand clotting her lungs; the other one thumbing the door knob!
'No No No!' the tears streamline his cheek side-With giggling sadistics, he chose to dig the hole-
bare hands and sandy palms to compliment his poem.
near the blood spot that dropped from her seam line.
He's keeps digging that hole next to the bench-He dug until his arms hung in malice-
malice, the same that phased his tongue and spun his balance!
He digs! And he digs! And he keeps singing the song,
the only song he remembers, so he tenors along!
'CCCCCCOME AND GET YOOOOOOOUR...!'
where he went to propose, because it's where they first met!
... and he walks back those three miles,The smile fades from his jaded face of wild-
and it sinks in... he feels quenched;
sits down on the park bench and prays for a while-
His heart is full, just like the dirt
still singing for her.
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