Tag: original characters

The Spin

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The sentences you murmur get entangled with mine, it’s funny,

Almost a coincidence, almost like you’re into this for the new money.

You feel intuitive, just like the paintbrushes between my fingers.

The word on the street is you can’t manage your anger, it lingers.

You grip the wheel until your knuckles turn white when I tease you.

You’re not into people, you’re only into things that please you.

Why am I watching your brain fall apart, why am I even here?

No willingness to fix the issues. No pretend, no love and no care.

But somehow your hold around the folds of my brain is stronger,

It’s puncturing my fragile strings, it’s making the dawns longer.

When the evening rushes towards me, all the notions dissolve.

I let your words speak for themselves

And they never evolve.

-JW

All The Dead Muses

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Paint dripping into the grass, paint dripping down the walls.

It’s a scene, it’s a vice you can’t buy in the mall.

The room was all white and we turned it vivid blue –

It’s a parody of the invasion of Normandy, it’s our Waterloo.

The charcoal in my palm tastes sullied and bitter,

Feels as if the story of me was never written.

Colours poured down my spine, colours all over the stage.

With each brush I rip apart, I satisfy my rage.

The ink between your fingers is stickier than nectar

And I bite down with force like Hannibal Lecter.

But I can’t hurt your skin or your skull, or your veins –

Gonna be a cold day in hell when I burn your remains.

My palms draw your lines and lumps for one more time.

Your hair exudes the smell of long broken pines.

Paint leaking onto the floor, paint dripping from your lashes.

You meld into the walls, you vanish in flashes.

-JW

The Woods

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Some days I don’t recognize her silhouette against the horizon.

Her feet run like a river but her mind is a dark moon rising.

Some days she follows me silently, waiting for the right moment,

And I only realize when it’s too late, once my mouth is foaming.

She doesn’t bite, she only chuckles in the foggy street corners.

She spreads the disease by filling my head with ten mourners.

The crows are chasing the sparks of my brain through the park,

I trip and tumble over my own two feet, no clarity in this dark.

Her presence is stronger, she comes closer, it’s a rollercoaster.

My shivering back pressed against a tree, sky picturesque like a poster.

I hold what’s left of my breath, squeeze my lids together tightly.

When I dare to look again, I hear a whisper sliding through the woods:

“Next time don’t fight me.”

-JW

Dysmorphic

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The coldness builds up in my stomach and neck,

A cold palm wrapping tighter around the edges,

Tighter around the wreck.

My insides shake violently, they dance around,

And I want to scream “No!” at strangers

But I can’t make a sound.

The coldness takes over my breathing, my jaw.

I grasp what’s left of me, I try to move away,

I claw and claw, and claw…

But it’s freezing my brain, the mirrors are milky.

No space left for a thought or a gulp of air.

My tongue feels silky.

The worst kind of poison is cutting open my head,

A merciless killer questioning my worth,

Leaving my body in shreds.

The coldness starts tasting like the sweetest morphine,

It fools my eyes completely, unavoidably

As I turn dysmorphic.

-JW

Thirteen Cold Cases And Other Tales: Prologue

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A rural area in the middle of Who-Gives-A-Damn is shocked

As thirteen people go missing within a bone chilling quarter.

The closet doors are blocked, the guts never seem to rot.

The locals would leave the county if they were any smarter.

The cold cases pile up on the table, almost tipping over.

Everyone puts on a mask of care, everyone knew a goner,

And people are faking sympathy for each unlucky rover…

Funny how only among the hunters they fear so much

There remains some honor.

A rural area in the middle of Nowhere & Never is enraged

After police discovers a mass grave in an abandoned house.

The place belonged to a woman using alias Fiona K. Sage.

In the grave they discovered her missing neighbor’s blouse.

The cold cases come crashing down, only fools keep looking.

Years pass, the locals turn faked grief into greedy ghost stories.

Tourists pour over the area, they fight to make a booking,

While the three hunters carry on snatching visitors

Without any worries.

-JW

#13 The Man In Red

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They keep telling me she’s gone, they keep messing with my head.

They want me to cry but I stay overly rowdy and sinister instead.

The gruesome crew I’ve been hunting with asks for revenge –

We keep discovering clues, we keep losing our leads to the stench.

We hear she’s been seen with a man in red in these streets.

That’s not enough to prosecute but he’ll speak if he bleeds.

Once the clock strikes seven PM we emerge from the masks.

No one in this town crosses our way once it’s finally dusk.

Not many people out at this hour, not many challenge their faith.

The huntress walks the southside alone acting as our bait.

I stay back lying in wait, scanning figures and dancing shadows.

Green-eyes is in her Cadillac, she reads the scene like cheap prose.

The fourth night arrives through coffee, nicotine and energy drinks.

The breezy weather shakes my senses, the hopelessness stings.

Despite the drowsiness, we hear a door swinging open close by.

A muffled sound, a kick, sheen of a car and an audible sigh.

We close in on the target – red coat, a lean figure and slight limp.

Tied up by his side is my sacred lamb, she’s not noticing a thing.

The others beg me to wait but I race forward like a starving beast.

Not a man in red – that goddamn woman I thought was deceased!

Oh Lizzy, Lizzy, how you’ve once again wronged me to death.

You told me I should try harder this time

While losing your breath.

-JW

#11 The Lonely Bones

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Dig, cut, wrap, clean, repeat. Another hole, another dead seed.

We’re hiding truths like normal people do, we plant what we need.

Dig, cut, wrap, clean, repeat. Push harder to cut off the feet.

Bury, smoothen, cover. Another body, another dead lover.

We’re escaping the destiny by hiding all that’s discovered.

Bury, smoothen, cover. We killed you and we killed your brother.

Sharpen, crush, growl some more. Another bruise, some shiny gore.

We’re tied in our count but who’s keeping a score?

Sharpen, crush, growl some more. Go faster to win the war.

Drink, celebrate, rest, cheer. Another pit of lonely bones sealed.

We’re gnarly inside and out, we’re the burnable breed.

Drink, celebrate, rest, cheer. Another pint to the terror we wield.

-JW

#5 The Sacred Lamb

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An expanding knot in my stomach before I even open the front door –

I sense the tension, the held back cries, the hope shattered on our floors.

My weak limbs pull themselves over the doorstep, I’m covered in dirt.

Yesterday three of my closest friends went missing, no one’s yet heard.

I’ve got an alibi three towns south, but did the escapee break the news?

That girl Vicky’s yet to apologize for the friction and pay what’s due.

But the look on my father’s face is more than pity or any other sadness –

Shatters of his very heart lay all over our place, growing in their vastness.

My brother’s there too, he holds me for far too long before I realize

My younger sister’s missing…

No amount of tears can suffice.

Taken, she’s been taken, someone took her. That’s all I really hear.

I hope this someone has the guts to face my painful fury, oh dear.

My feet take me out of the house, all across the putrid hometown.

I’ve heard of this gracious green-eyed beast making her rounds.

The lady’s deadlier than I’ll ever be but what’s the point of my pride?

The plain street I walk down has one eccentric house – I’m down for the ride.

Her seven inch heels click on the surfaces before she lets me in –

Beautiful, eloquent, well-reversed and funny, clearly deadly as sin.

While I don’t mind the corpses in her garden, she doesn’t mind my intrusion.

There’s common sense even between the worst of ghouls with no illusions.

We strike a deal as her fairy-tale clock strikes three in the afternoon.

I promise to give her a hand with her garden,

She promises to become one of my goons.

-JW

#9 The Gathering Of The Ghouls

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My anger pours out of every stitch as I slam my wine glass on the table.

No amount of cursing will scratch the itch firing through my bugged cables.

The wiring’s off, throw out the plans and gather around this failed attempt.

Two people have escaped our rightful anger, nobody else can be exempt.

The huntress puts stainless steel blades in her belt, her caution is paper thin.

The green-eyed bitch of the rural streets perfectly applies her own skin.

I watch in terror as my own image disappears and reappears in reflections.

We’re ready to comb the town and kill everyone daring to walk our direction.

I shrug and rest my palm on the cold gun besides the shattered wine glass.

Can’t hide it as more and more questions near me through the grass.

The bottle’s done and my team of revolting human waste looks right at me.

They know as well as I do – we must kill the witness to finally be happy.

What comes next is pre-written: we slash each other’s throats for hours

Until only one claims this shabby town the three of us have called ours.

As the night swallows our bodies within its charcoal veils, my back straightens.

The one who fled escaped painless grave, but she can’t escape the Satan.

-JW

#3 The Meeting

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She escaped a gruesome death and a poisoning attempt, she escaped.

Somehow despite all the odds and favors I called in, she escaped.

They ushered me away as she jumped right in front of moving cars.

My limp pride carried itself out of the scene under the sparkly stars.

We finished the job but the high of the deed never rushed my system.

She ran away even though she was the least weary and persistent.

The time is not our friend at this point, we cut right through the forest.

Pearly moon is lightning the path, the sight is nothing but modest,

And the peace doesn’t last long, there are steps behind us closing in.

My patience is on the edge, and the edge is far less than paper thin.

I turn and pull out a gun, unable to let another foolish witness slide.

The darkness behind me is blinding, the night tastes like anthracite,

Yet I know a creeper when I hear one so I march towards the sound,

Trigger finger ready to swim in the ecstasy of firing the round.

There’s a blade in my face held by a stranger, my barrel’s aimed at her.

What a standoff – the moon is making the hesitation more severe.

The seconds tick away but we don’t move a muscle in our faces.

How do I tell her “we have a common goal, let’s slow our paces”?

Somehow she reads my distasteful thoughts, the knife is removed.

As she offers me her palm saying:

“No need to harm a fellow hunter, my name’s Ramone.”

-JW