Murder of One

Should I murder God,

In the midst of night,

Would anyone take notice

Of the bloodied sky?

If in a beggar’s prostration,

Cup in hand, awaiting charitable mercy

And alcoholic warmth, I am injured enough

To commit murder, may I deem it just?

Just, in that I am no mercy

Or worthy of such prayers,

So why does the Almighty,

Not heed them thus?

Why must it be left,

To those themselves tortured

By life in entirety, to answer the cries

Intended for a Creator?

Why must selfish life,

Tend to life, and dying flesh,

And deny itself

In favour of another's burden?

I look on with pity, at shivering bodies

At warm conscious corpses

In the icy winter wind, which bites me so

And see respite in death alone.

Coming to revile all spirituality,

Reverence for divinity, and adherence to scriptures;

All selfish and hollow, like my complaints,

Like their begging, like hunger in us all.

If I were to Murder,

So that they should look to none but themselves,

Would I not be righteous, in removing false hope,

And preaching of life as it is, rather than were?

In my heart lies an empty grave, engraved thus;

"Here lays the Lord, slain in battle",

For I knew the day would come,

When I could no longer bear the ceaseless cries of suffering.

If I were to Murder, the Maker of all pains and sorrows,

Of the Heavens and the Earth,

Of the fires of Hell, of famine and death, of life so ugly,

And despairing. Of pain itself, of being, being in a place of constant sorrows,

Measured by their temporary cessation, as a break in the clouds,

Which we cling to like a moment of sunshine, smiling, forgetting always

That sadness is the rule. Would it all be in vain,

I fear, would anyone notice?

I fancy they would continue in their ways,

Clinging to time honoured traditions,

Archaic methods contrary to reason,

Unjust in the zeitgeist which post-dates their relevance.

I fear it would pointless, and though I long for no credit in the deed,

It would be unheeded all the same; as they would remain unchanged,

For they require no God, no Truth, no Fire in the sky,

So long as they have rules, and false hopes.

Imagination and machinations that would continue regardless, in spite of facts,

Thus rendering the service meaningless, and prayers harder to bear.

Irrelevant is the truth, and less relevant miracles,

They ask nothing of anything,

And like sheep follow for their own selfish fears,

Reproducing them in children, such that idiocy should live on.

In spite of the Virgin, and her Son on the Cross,

In spite of their neighbours, in spite of humanity,

In spite of anything,

In spite, they live on.

By Haemophiliac

Finished 22/12/09

A Prayer for the Dark

Insoluble in life, dissolved in darkness

Without ghosts or apparitions,

Solitary, even in embrace,

Save for smiles, and the sharing of common pains.

In a wilderness, I echo amongst the trees

Life in abundance, occupying space alone.

Voids fill voids, formless gravity connects one to another

No strings to pull on, empty in ourselves.

We create creators to escape isolation,

But I know better than this

Afraid of the dark,

With no angels to comfort me.

To cease to be, once we have existed

In a child’s cries, lies proof of life.

No Gods to beseech, no Devils to forebode

Afraid of the dark,

In a starless room

I am alone.

A prayer for the night, on my flesh I compose,

When I am engulfed, let life live on.

My kidneys to the needy,

Let them be purified by me alone.

My liver to an alcoholic, for he has lived,

And found demons where I saw none.

Blood to all those longing,

Or drain in the gutters if my thoughts are polluted thus.

Let my marrow be used to fight cancers

Which plagued all efforts to love.

And if science should permit,

Gift my eyes too,

Perhaps there is more to see than suffering,

And it was I that knew not how.

My tongue then, to whomever

That I may comfort someone, with a kiss

Or simple words. Taste life anew,

This time maybe not so bitter.

Let me not forget

Life in totality,

So to the animals my flesh,

And my skin to adorn.

Lastly my heart, let it beat in another

That love should live on,

Regardless of object or form.

Only in this is being, the beauty of moments

Resonating in our breasts, a metronome for existence,

Use the measures for music,

Sing only of love.

My prayer for the dark, for a soulless soul

In life we live on, after we are gone.

With the matter of existing then, create impressions all round

That after the implosion, though the candle exhausted

The waves ripple on.

To face cessation, I have only fear

Of painlessness, when for pain I long.

So let my words carry in the organs, I bequeath to the earth,

The neurons die, all impulses gone

We return to nothing, but in life we live on.

By Haemophiliac.

Finished 17/12/09.

the who's and the what's

I sit here quietly, alone in a social gathering because I've never been able to do small talk. Never learned how to mingle and talk sh*t no one really even cares about. Never. It’s an art to engage in and carry on a conversation about nothing. Maybe I would've had more nameless s*x if I had. But I didn't and haven't. Perhaps only because I was honest enough never to give a f***, and knew deep down neither did anyone else.

Always the same cliched questions, the same routine; what do you do, who do you know, how long, etc. Same sh*t again and again. Everyone walking around with the same keys, to see who's pants or accounts they'll unlock. Everyone thirsting and craving the same, each with their social etiquette. Everyone consumed in the “what’s”.

If I was to show a moment of honesty, and tell you that I have my issues, as undoubtedly do you. I have my cr*p, and you have yours. In this day, and at our age, love comes with enough caveats that we'll probably never have a happily ever after. We can hide our demons long enough to say the words, to entwine, and reveal... And then to find we can't cope. I love only that you love me, not all the burdens you lay before me. If I had enough honesty to tell you that, and not as “what” you are, but to tell you that you're beautiful, and when you smile I want to experience a moment with you, to freeze it so that I can look back at some sh*tty moment in my life and smile. Now if I told you that, and that I have nothing more to offer than a few nights of experience, you'd think I was just another f*cking asshole. Another “guy”. Another boy that wants his fun but none of the responsibility. But that's just it. I bore of these games because I've given you honesty. I've ask you who you are, like we all did as children, in school. Our questions were all "who" questions, and we loved and had friendships based on who's. Now all replaced with the bullshit of "what's".

Far from lie, and waste your time with charades, if I was to sincerely tell you I'm interested in experiencing the who, as I love all the who's, you'd walk away. So I save us all the formalities and sit here quietly, alone. Watching all the “what’s” bore themselves into non-existence. Watching and wondering how I never fell into that society. Thankfully, always an outsider. A victim of my own failures. Consumed in my late twenties with my own mid-life crisis and search for proof of life in fleeting moments with women, and where none should make themselves available to me, with wh*res.

My clergy remain unclothed, bathed in carnivorous truth, beyond the intellectual understanding of moralists, theologians, educators. My gods between her legs, her’s in the hunger of my passions. We feed one another, steal from each other, quench our thirsts together. But above all this, I am myself, and she is what I desire.

Always fighting the despairing abyss of mediocrity. I see six billion lives crowding a dying planet, infesting, such that the gods see ants scrambling for breadcrumbs. I desire only that I may be remembered, known, immortal. Unwilling to accept death as it is, powerless against its inevitability, I am left with words. Words and even those as if written by a Salieri living eternally through us all.

who gives a f*ck about me? really? therein lies the problem, because chief amongst all, i give a f*ck about me. drowning in narcissistic self-infatuation made of smoke and mirrors. i dont even see myself anymore, not as i used to, not as i am. a self indulgent mirage of all i dream i can be - too good for most of you. the longer we're without the love of another, the more we fill that void with own love of ourselves. more and more each day, that you aren't good enough for me anymore. or so the coward would have me believe. risk nothing. the grotesque image too beautiful for anyone that would have me. no, i chase after apparitions, the progeny of the gods, heirs to beauty that can only be bought. such are the cravings i wake every night to and long for. its all bullshit. a fusion of styles, none of them me, all well worked lies such that only when you remove the colours, the pastels, the oil, when you have nothing but a blank canvas can you truly see how f*cking plain i am. but even then, i see mastery and artistry in an empty page, and duly credit myself. f*ck the truth, its only a relative perspective anyway. worthless to my ego. like the theologians that pick and choose sciences that serve them alone.

its so long since i stopped looking at myself that i don't even know what beauty is anymore. i would never have those that would love me, none are as beautiful as i. turning my back on all opportunities to actually feel anything without my initials inscribed on it. insecurity bleeding into narcissistic love, and as the blood runs dry, begins the self loathing.