Act One: Artistes
Overture, Part the First: Silent Killers
Therapy Session (Valkyrie)
I saw through your soul at first sight, Soulless soul, Hollow as mine.
Tiger’s spirit; Judge, jury and executioner, Rolled into one ball of calm fury.
Seeking me out for my own travesties, Such is the nature of your calling.
Next on your list,
My penchant for the Death Dramatis, a failing, At least to you.
Appointment made, counselling the lies, In each word of deceit sits a truth, I am as naked to you as you are to me. Both eluding the authorities, Failing to offer expected motive.
Motive is desire, nothing more, Seekers of sanctions and retribution, Unleashing a fury on the troubling. We are natural born killers, Punishing the unworthy.
You try to deny the thrill, justify with just cause, Whereas I consume my prey in part,
Dress the rest as a side dish for all to see.
I hear your hollow words, But I listen to the unspoken.
The recorder is switched off, the papers stowed, I lean forward locking my eyes with yours, ‘Your words are gracious mendacities. I see you. Renowned for my discretion, speak freely, As a sheep who addresses the silent priest.
For there is much we have in common, Baying for the blood of the unrighteous, Bringing justice where justice fails.
Open yourself to me, offer the truth,
And we shall seek together.’
Illusion of Similarity (Dyer-Bolique)
Eloquent corruption stirring within,
A vacant void filled with ravenous curiosity, For I see the inhuman suit from me.
A pure manifestation of my purest desire,
The vacancy within myself screaming;
Writhing in its silent symphony of macabre lust, Coiled in on itself with immoral delight, Patient in its own blood rapture to come.
You, the facsimile of humanity that sits adjacent to me,
Scrutinizing my being with your own unadulterated image,
Stilled acknowledgement of your duplication of death.
My heart calm and steady in your glare,
Most people go through life devoid of what we share; A common ground of vicious aspirations,
The purest form of balanced damnation our calling, The dissimilar methods of no consequence.
I address the would-be beast of prey before me, Monotones of jovial unconcern ringing out, A gambit of normality to snare my inhuman prey.
The game commences with appropriate discord, 'A common cause does invite strange bedfellows, Seeking what we both desire from anti-life. The greatest form of scales to be balanced,
And always, at the end of my equity bringing hand. Perhaps we shall both enjoy the other’s company of carnage,
Soulless in its own rapture of screams.’
Seeking the demise of the unjust,
My own form circling yours,
Drawing the chaos akin to the fly,
As the normality of a spider will ensnare you.
In time…
Overture, Part the Second: Obsession’s Desirous Slaves
The last Supper (Valkyrie)
Friend, associate, colleague?
The words escape me, absent from my vocabulary; Perhaps a paired frosty soul,
Thrust into this icy existence.
Wielding a hand of God, or my adversary?
Removed from the therapeutic environment,
You sit at my table, haunted by voices; Discourse of a split mind.
I serve tender, fine cutlets, my own recipe.
Tender, prepared, just as I prepare you.
‘Many go unnoticed, absent from my records.
Underhand, silent deviants, hiding.
Some with phobias, others with philias,
Attracted to the pain inflicted on others,
Such is life.’
I carve the pale meat, a steady hand, Used to the blade.
‘One demon did solicit advice, secretly.
A penchant for youthful screams,
A need to watch the eye’s light extinguish.’
You dig into the flesh placed before your eyes, Listening to me, and the dark tones of your mind. ‘Without prejudice he would prey,
A hyena or rat, scuttling in his own filth.
His grim needs growing ever more macabre.
He sat at this table, much like yourself,
But without my integrity, a gift bestowed only on you. Medication took hold, sinking him into slumber, From which he awoke, paralysed.
Severed spine.
Able to feel, blade perfectly placed.
Slaughtered over time, I relished his consequences, Empathy inflicted; empathy enforced.
His sins bled from his living corpse…
And offered to you, my honoured guest…
A fine meal?’
A Manifestation of Myself (Dyer-Bolique)
The reflection of my own fiend insatiable, The meal presented at your ravenous hand.
Darkness indeed enjoys company at its table, The alliance in extermination makes a merry band.
The Imitation of me!
By candlelight I am served what I know it to be, Delightful pieces of well-prepared culinary fare.
Human flesh served (and imbibed) on silver cutlery.
Our murderous innermost desires shared, The Reflection within.
Civil conversation the second order of the day, Course after carnivorous course delightfully consumed.
Listening carefully as details of the victim about us lay,
A difference in termination, I wholeheartedly approve, The mirror in characterization.
We continue with the grim and savoury feast, All the while circling each other's hidden truths.
I understand your silently screeching beast, As mouth after mouth, we consume your victims, tooth by tooth.
The Perfection universal,
'Your methods of disposal rough yet effective, My own methods of vermin and swine removal not as refined.
Do share your thoughts on bodily severance.’
My own internal Serpent writhes,
Dear sweet lady, your flesh to be parted and your will be mine.
An Aesthetic Display (Valkyrie)
‘To share my thoughts would be deceitful,
When I may display the prowess clear,
Enrapture your beating heart, delightful,
A living image for you my dear.’
And with those words I chain your hand in mine, Leading you into the depths of hell.
Wooden staircase descending into my pit, A secret room where our desires may swell.
Beyond the basement’s simple hues we head,
Therein, bound, a limbless living corpse resides, Adrenaline driven, pained yet present on a bed, Drifting on death’s impending, ever flowing tides.
‘An offering to you, a gift from my cancerous heart,
I had sought an outlet for the spoils of war,
This spoil is a promise of more to come, a start, Fear of his demise sickening beyond the limbs so sore.’
I wheel out my trolley, an array of the artist’s tools, Colourful by suggestion, sharp and shining silver shades,
‘It is your time, the time of death for narcissistic fools,’ I state mockingly, hand reaches and passes the sharpened blades.
‘For you my kindred star,
My lost soul drifted so far,
Take off your mask, raise your head,
And show me who you truly are.’
Overture, Part the Third: Ode to Lost Souls
The Duplicitous Duet (Dyer-Bolique)
I follow the cannibalistic Valkyrie to her subterranean sanctum.
Noticing her desire to witness my dark inclinations, I watch as she presents her array of wicked mechanisms,
The luminous glint of cold steel inviting death’s manifestation.
Blessed Valkyrie!
I glance at the being contaminated by his final moments,
Slowly pacing about the ensuing corpse; my form of amusement!
The animalistic void devouring the sight of torments, The palatable cavern of delights welcomes my murderous movements.
My crazed Valkyrie!
The mask about my falsified self begins to slip,
My hands steady as the other takes wicked hold of me, Soon the chosen blade within my delighted grasp, Inching closer to he who is at his last.
Tainted Valkyrie!
The unsympathetic knife raised with steady possession,
Its own life imbued within the swollen nether regions of my abyss,
Hovering before the plunge of our sinister obsession, Blood flows in currents and rivers of murk born mists.
The Adoration of my Valkyrie…Welcome!
My Dyer-Bolique (Valkyrie)
An inner smile spreads as my Dyer-Bolique strips, Baring his true nature as a man revealing the flesh. Such titillation, voyeurism with front row seats, Man, and monster rolled into one; The beast before me.
Blessed Dyer-Bolique!
Prospecting a future, prey’s lamented incarceration, Victim of your own wantonness, warmth soaks me. As our joint fatality takes its last breath, I harvest the offal,
Succulent for another feast.
My Crazed Dyer-Bolique!
Veritable mirrored demons at play in their lava, As my admiration for Dyer-Bolique grows, so too does a challenge;
To quell the screaming paranoia urging my lover to escape,
And fuel curiosity forcing him to remain.
Tainted Dyer-Bolique!
Blazing the furnace I roast the remnants of our foe, Food and fuel served as one, true economy, Though economics are not required.
Ashes to ashes.
The adoration of my Dyer-Bolique waking me, Rousing the sleeper from her archaic coma, Blessing my crazed and tainted Dyer-Bolique.
Our union…Welcome!
Blessed Dyer-Bolique!
Leaving behind our nemesis as he warms the hearth, Finding warmth in each other, Suggestions flow.
My Crazed Dyer-Bolique!
‘The dice has been thrown in your favour,
Find a deserving deer, let us hunt together, Let us incorporate new methods, And not stagnate.
Tainted Dyer-Bolique!
Justice must fit the crime, passion burned with passion,
And the victim aptly punished.
Punishment will fit the crime,
Let justice, and art, dominate.’
The adoration of my Dyer-Bolique…Welcome!
Scene One: Music to Death’s Fears
A Symphony of Choice (Dyer-Bolique)
Valkyrie roars in sanguinous, silent symphony,
Symphony offering an invitation in pairing pursuit,
A pursuit and study in melodious inflicting misery, Misery rife with possibilities in bloodied beauty to be wrought.
Our beings moving in tandem with inner desire,
Desire out to greet each other’s dark incarnations,
Incarnations greeting the cleansing to commence, Commence the next line of our scathing discourse.
The hunt shall commence with judicious observation,
Observation of prey chosen for their lack of civility, Civility devoid in a broken society,
Society welcoming the unknown demise.
The creature in humanity’s form chosen,
Chosen for its own treatment of others about it, It leads others to a ruination without purpose, Purposeful in its lack of the truest judgment.
A foreboding sense washes over my internal self,
Self’s own melodic howl matching that of Valkyrie, Valkyrie who will swim in the same torrents of suffering,
Suffering to be brought by our judgmental paws.
The target set,
The sacrifice found, Our elation to come, Our corruption soon fed.
Revelation’s Rhapsody (Valkyrie)
Accessing your blemished mind, hearing your symphony,
Symphony of words desirous to bring a despot’s pursuit,
Pursuit of one who leads his fallen comrades in misery,
Misery replacing the spoils of war’s victory, faux militia, lead guerilla.
You, Dyer-Bolique, express yourself, a guarded desire, Desire drifts into words depicting the major’s fake incarnations,
Incarnations post absence without leave, we
commence,
Commence to plot against the scourge of the country.
You speak, my Dyer-Bolique, and I make my
observation,
Observation of the guarded soldier offering civility, Civility akin to a passion, incoherent to society, Society ailing. Our dispassionate guillotine hefty.
The target, veritable thug for hire, identified and chosen,
Chosen as deserving in an undeserving world, subject to it.
It waits beyond nonchalantly, serving its own purpose,
Purpose or pleasure, it matters not, for he has sinned.
‘What method?’ I query to your vicious and manipulative self,
Self that must trust, but cannot be trusted, my life given to you,
You, the only one who understands, contemplates suffering.
Suffering, and its method. I await your decision.
The target set,
The sacrifice found, Our elation to come, Our corruption soon fed.
The Melody of a Macabre Path (Dyer-Bolique)
Our paths ever crossed in a sinister serenade,
We have feasted at the demise of the chosen,
Demolished the lifeforce in the wake of our judgment, Yet more is desired and specified in the call of our salacious desires.
Our paths set on the next subject of our callous chanting,
Your yin to my yang, enquires of a melodic method of dispatch,
A penalty befitting of he who has caught our tuned eye.
Techniques used in the form of new, glorious pleasures.
Our paths awaiting my form of destruction for the intended.
Blackened hues of coiled vengeance crawl through me, Silent slithers move with malice upon my fractured psyche,
A hushed chorus of intent and soaring jubilation ring within.
Our paths soon to coalesce at my final blood driven decision,
‘The intended’s death to be met at our hands, fitting in my regard,
Glorious and sweet to be dealt in blissful suffering, Swift and painful will be my gift and his final agonyinduced reward.
Thanatomorphosis, to necrotize alive.’
Trust will be given.
Orchestral chimes demise,
Anguishing malady to be administered, An intimacy in death to be gifted.
Horror’s Harmony (Valkyrie)
Our paths merge, for I am an eminent member of the academic world,
An all-access pass where access is formidable and oft denied,
I acquire the malady from its cool, secured prison, As requested, Necrotizing Fasciitis, a hungry microbe.
Our paths fuse, careful words spread across my social web entice,
Draw the fly to the spiders, tarantulas masked in etiquette. Valkyrie and Dyer-Bolique.
The major seeks out my counsel, as manipulated, As anticipated.
For even the most ardent overlords sit in a haze of paranoia.
Our paths are one, anticipating the deadly summit, Our bodies become one in the thunderous mists of the hunt,
Entwined and enraptured, a swirl of naked aggression.
Heat rises within us, sparse room between us, melded together.
Fury driven lust.
Our paths observe as the major comes,
‘Dyer-Bolique, my protegee, you wait…
Hide in the shadows for an opportune moment, a silence,
Then, administer the sting of slumber.’
We move the war villain. Subtly.
Awakening in the labyrinth, constrained, we inflict the noxious disease.
Trust will be taken.
Orchestral chimes demise,
Anguishing malady administered, An intimacy in death gifted.
The Necrotizing Nocturne (Dyer-Bolique)
Within our inner subterranean sanctum our victim lies,
Without the comfort afforded a man of stature such as he.
You, my Valkyrie, look on, in stoic regard of our morbid creation.
The protagonist of our undisclosed retribution rouses in suspicion.
Pulses of uncontrollable tremor wrack the would-be leader’s bound limbs,
Beginnings of sublime blood emanate from the ocular orifices.
Within our own devoid existences, we revel in the carnage commenced.
Without the pleasure of anesthesia, the subject of our dark desires descends.
My Valkyrie continues her silent rapture as the scene continues to unfold.
The protagonist continues his exsanguination and at our murderous intent,
Pulses of fever, escalating in crimson ascent of madness inducting agony, quake,
Beginnings of the euphoric finality that lies in tortured death strike.
Within our twinned souls, our hands meet, the labors of our torment bearing fruit,
Without the unrewarding reprieve, our victim writhes in terror.
My Valkyrie trembles at the sight unfolding in a theatrical display of gore.
The protagonist increases his cries in an escalating crescendo of pain,
Pulses throb behind his eyes, giving way to the satisfactory detonation of ocular discharge. Beginnings of the overture in suffering that rings delectable to our ears.
Suffering not yet peaked,
Satisfaction commencing, Twin souls becoming one, The Merging of bodily Mayhem.
The Necrotizing Narcissist (Valkyrie)
Within its cage, my heart beats, as our victim’s breast reeks and splits.
Without sympathy we view our living picture, and the wounds spread.
You, my Dyer-Bolique, smirk. Lovely eyes awash with icy disdain.
The protagonist, hero in his own mind, grimaces as his lip peels,
Pulses heave on the tide of cowardice, his teeth bared through locked jaw.
Beginnings of a rare satisfaction tremble through me and call to you.
Within our souls, ecstatic spirits quell with our soiled lusts,
Without relief our prey squeals against the trappings of the organism.
You, my Dyer-Bolique, glare into the swamps of my being, fixated.
The protagonist gurgles as the invisible ants flay him alive.
Pulses rip my insides in an explosive bonding with my missing piece,
Beginnings of a mutual tsunami building within as we watch his skinned demise.
Within our chasm, predators feed prey to Beelzebub’s furnace.
Without constraint, without social performance, without care,
You, my Dyer-Bolique, flay the satin cloth from my aching body,
The protagonist of MY story carries his Belle from their lair.
Pulses electrify my long-suffering form, throbbing need for you,
Beginnings of a tasteless covalence, as you fill me beyond comprehension.
Suffering peaks,
Satisfaction fulfilled,
Twin forms becoming one,
The Merging of bodily Mayhem.
Scene Two: Dance of Death
Somber Samba (Dyer-Bolique)
Rapturous bodies heave in the lust urgency of becoming one.
We were willing witnesses to the scene and grotesque masquerade,
The vision of our new unity brought to life, as life was undone.
Phantoms of the rapacious demise before our collective consciousnesses’ displayed.
Satisfaction retreats in the wake of our transient beings,
New flesh to be extracted to satiate the ever-growing desires,
The next whirl of the massacred lechery also must be found and unwilling.
One pirouette at this new camaraderie stoking my own fires.
The wheel shall ever turn in favor of the choice of execution,
‘You, my salacious Valkyrie shall bequeath our next target,
Your choice should be ever just in favor of the unjust expiration,
A heightened challenge to challenge our venery and testing subject.’
A new laceration in dance begins, She will choose,
Blood driven step.
Woeful Waltz (Valkyrie)
As the sheets dampen beneath our salacious accord you make your request,
Queen of the predators to choose the king’s deserving prey.
As our bodies merge once more, minds spinning in destruction’s lust,
Queen of the predators contemplates her offering.
Thoughts of our fury drive fury on,
Heated in dominance’s turn, Desperately needed, Wanton, sated.
Pas de chat.
‘The wheel shall turn against the exquisite choreographer, Jean-Pierre.
My salacious Dyer-Bolique, he is a cruel ballet master, His choice; to use the casting couch for his own performance,
A heightened challenge to perform the arabesque, thereafter rejected.
Thoughts of the ballet master’s cruelty drive on,
Heated by his heartless, fickle adagio, Desperately, deceitfully taking, Wanton, capricious.
Changements.
‘Flexible in his gait and movement, let us test his suppleness,
Twist and bend each limb, in preparation for a celebratory meal,
A date to exceed all others in its culinary wisdom and technique,
A veritable rond de jambon.’
A new laceration in the ballet begins, He will accept my choice, Blood driven pirouette.
A Ravenous Rond de Jambe (Dyer-Bolique)
Our collective conscious sweetly plagued in agreement,
Her resolve at style over fleeting fatality,
Pleasant in the thoughts of the hunt,
For now, the hunt commences.
A body torn asunder, By one’s own hand, A true Volta.
Now we attend to that which matters to the twin entity most;
The target to be laid low within the sanctity of his own surroundings,
An alpha predator in his own sovereign swan like wilderness,
To be brought to cavorting mortality at the whimsical hands of violent grace.
Now we move in separation, as one animation of bloody intent,
A target marked upon his stage. Unrequited passions!!
As if the would-be hunter awaited our call met, A potent concoction of my own composition, Soon to be administered during interlude.
We await his sole rendition.
Alone at last he begins his solitary turn,
Unaware of my concealed presence,
All it takes is a poisoned prick,
My angel dust purveying my spurn.
Now open to suggestion, his final dance,
For the Valkyrie approaches, Testing his elasticity, Stuck in the trance.
Now he contorts, Now he suffers, Now death comes.
The Last Tango in Entrechat (Valkyrie)
In his exquisite state I approach,
Refined in my appearance, Delicate in my step, Benign.
Feeding his ego, as he will feed us,
I request a demonstration, Extreme prowess, No limits.
His ego swells in my presence,
Angering Dyer-Bolique, Such is your envy, Irrefutable.
The fiend takes to the stage,
Solitary in his solo,
Exhibiting aloud, Symphony.
Music plays at our behest,
I take the front seat, You, shadowy twin, Watching.
Prima Ballerina glows with pride,
As he offers his performance, For my eyes only, No limits.
Pliable plier, bending his back,
Etendre, his leg stretches, Sauter et tourner, Jump and turn.
Tempo increases, carefully chosen,
Confused in his entranced state, Plier, etendre, sauter, tourner, Faster and faster.
Each flex and bend pushing his limbs,
Hurtling towards the extremes, Pain is an illusion now, First snap.
He laughs manically as his elbow breeches.
Through the skin, bone protrudes, He is unfazed by the crack, My puppet.
You, shadowy soulmate, increase the volume, Tempo gathers pace, like his twists. Turns flex further, another elbow, Ghastly.
Melancholic intrigue bathes me passionately, Soaking in my Dyer-Bolique’s warm glow, Audience to our elastic prey.
Entrechat.
Entrechat, the beat of a rabid heart, He takes flight and slams, Tearing his knee.
Unstoppable.
Blissfully unaware, the creature pushes himself,
Down on his knees, locked in the harmony, His back bends, further and further, And snaps!
Music ceases, silence reverberates throughout, A duo, and a solo artist, unwittingly broken, We approach the stage as he lays.
Paralysis.
Our hands meet as we push the mangled being, Head meets feet, severance of spine.
Our gloved hands lift the mess.
The meat.
Basted in honey,
Dressed in the offal of a dead man, Garnished, Slowly roasted.
Now his barely breathing cruelty burns, Now he suffers, Now he dies.
Scene Three: A Work of Art
A Portrait in Portent (Dyer-Bolique)
Our passions; ever filled by the cruel fulfilment of primitive desire.
We bask in the glory of our own intellectual sadism, Never perennial and lasting in its fleeting solace. A new offering upon bloodied grandeur’s throne, Presently to be proffered to you, my Valkyrie. The individual; a martyr to my void, A sacrifice to your wanton macabre. To suffer in extended bliss, Subservient to my brush.
Stoic and bound in self,
Internally tormented, Hapless against us, Touched on canvas.
Immortalized.
The Oil Painting’s Flaws (Valkyrie)
A noble offering presented,
Captive subject to our art;
Passive sitter, dehydrated as the brushes stroke, And we, kindred imps, design our masterpiece.
Impressed by your magnificent suggestion, I goad you on, desiring above all else to be yours.
A noble offering presented,
My graceful body for your art,
Passive concubine surrendering to your affections, And the splintered being breaks within my soul.
Impressed by your magnificent power,
I goad you on, at first, but your demeanor alters.
A noble offering pinned,
Captive subject to your grip,
Passive temptress, deflated by your masterful body, And the cracks in the painting begin to show.
Terrified by your magnificent awesome domination, I plead with you to show a merciful side.
A noble offering, I desire, My fearful body for your art.
Passive slave to my own ravenous desires,
And the bars on my self-inflicted prison sketched.
Terrified by your ardent yearning, hungering for you, I plead with you to offer your loyal adoration.
Sculpture in waiting (Dyer-Bolique)
‘My Mistress of unlight, you command pursuit of the brutal and profane!’
Ever insipid in your own crimson distinguishability, Clawing and demanding of my dark and tortured affections,
‘I will yield to that which you desire with presiding intrigue.’
Inner-self and commanding force mold you
unwittingly to my will,
Your innermost desires to be met at the graciousness of my hand.
My Mistress of the shadow wishes dark desires fulfilled,
Impulses that will be thoroughly shaped into mine. With subtle hand and masterful stroke will you be made anew,
Painted and commemorated in the image of wretched obscurity.
The imperious nature of myself yielding, with sleight of hand,
Every wish, I shall acquiesce to your murderous intent.
‘My Mistress born on the scarlet wings of hellish inclination,
You shall want for nothing…’
In accordance with my framework,
Mere clay to be shaped in accordance with my firefueled Hadean craft,
A beautiful and terrible image modelled on my perceived subjugation.
With your permission obtained I set forth adoration, Ever aware of my task at hand and the surreptitious bending of your will.
My Mistress, created of a tumultuous relationship we savor and endure,
‘I shall become docile in your quest for the perfect victim…’
One to be molded and statuesque in splendor, Our love to be completed by my own bloodied artistic impression.
Carved By His Hand (Valkyrie)
Complicit in your responses, feeding me the words I long to hear…
Yet, I listen to the subtle ironies and undertones, The microcosmic expressions that barely give you away;
Painful intentions to control and subjugate.
I sense it, I feel it, I fear it!
Yet, our shared secrets lock us in destiny’s arms.
Caution creeps in, and I play the fool, or perhaps the fool plays me,
‘Sister Aurora, a Godly woman in dress, but something wicked hides within,’
My dishonest words cascade from the ridge, testing you.
‘Creator of murals, creator of etchings on soft skin,
her murderous hubris.’
I wonder if you sense my deception.
‘Artist becomes subject to our vision, stilled and starved.’
You give nothing away, lack expression. I delve deeper.
‘Charitable member of our priory, answerable only to
God. Or US!’
My fingers trace patterns about your neck and shoulders.
‘She would come if called, assistance in the
community.’
The snare is set, the seed of an idea rapidly shooting and blooming,
My grip tightens, kneading your tense flesh, my dire lover.
Needing your rigid flesh as you gasp for your own accord.
‘Would she not make the perfect subject for our canvas?’
My lips brush yours as I await a stern response.
Inside I burn,
Inside I fear,
Inside I tremble,
Inside my suspicion flowers.
Is this what you desire?
Am I to be carved by your hand?
The Sanctified canvas (Dyer-Bolique)
Propositions in quarry you, my Bathory, have introduced.
Expressionless consternation the champion to silent seduction!
Tempted and moved at my prompts in the search for sanguinity,
Her manipulation giving flight to the avid inanition.
By unwavering hand, the stage of prolonged murder constructed,
My Valkyrie’s suggestions heeded and brought to fruition.
In the eyes spying a consecrated building; the nun to be abducted,
Clear in thought and charged with an unholy purpose.
Driven.
I seek your proposed target,
A venerable one to be sure,
‘My conscious needing redemption dear mother,
For myself and possibly on behalf of another.’ She seats me among ever forlorn pews, Their lonely occupation, welcome news.
I convey my darkest sins upon her attentive habit,
Her wary face soon soaked in tear-stained realization,
‘Dearest sister if you resist it will be problematic.’ Soon to be a mannequin in pursuit of my love’s creation.
My gift to your wickedness, I so have developed, Blissfully unaware of my own gruesome intentions. Ignorant I am not of the innocence of the holy zealot, I offer the woman up, uttering to you a benediction.
Exsanguination at the Easel’s Alter (Valkyrie)
Strangely subdued, she surrenders to our intentions, Minimal restraints required, posed perfectly. Diabolical benediction spoken from her host’s mouth, Sarcasm perpetuating through every word.
Outline paint required, torniquet tightened, needle penetrates,
As the needles of your eyes penetrate my inner thoughts.
My deception unveiled.
Crimson fluid pumps into the vial, expecting the dip of my brush.
Meticulously, I produce my art, your gaze burns with each stroke.
Defining the haughtily submissive angel, I mar the canvas,
The unblemished habit forming within the scene.
Unblemished and innocent, my love letter to you.
A second vial required, coolly I fix her with my stare, Knowing that her piety will deny me any response, For she has faith.
Dyer-Bolique, your faith is lacking, but the potent chemistry remains,
Acid and lye, simmering, preparing for a mighty explosion.
Etching the canvas mirrors my etching of her frail skin.
The night drags on.
Her lips click with an arid thirst, but the seal remains closed.
Her hands cross on her trembling lap, the shuddering consumes.
A wasted meal, for the mutton is tough, indigestible, noxious.
My antics prove less palatable as you relish and loathe the test.
A final vial ensures closure, our masterpiece complete, My Werther to your Goethe, despised for the truths within.
Exsanguinated and at peace, inflamed and charred, But through the canvas her legacy lives on.
Your wrath tears through as we become one, Uncontrollable, Unhinged.
I fear that I may win this tournament, But have a more insidious game at hand.
Scene Four: Cards and Wine
The Roulette of Artistic Rendition (DyerBolique)
My passion spent upon the ruins of your unadorned flesh.
Eyes willfully burning in the amber conflagration of utmost rage,
Your body, the yielding witness to my emotionless onslaught,
Your destruction of that which I deemed innocent, fueling my ignition.
I had watched,
I had observed,
I circled,
I am one in vexation.
We reflected each other’s morbidity,
We sang the tune of bloodied evolution,
We danced at the sight of destructive retribution,
We created from the mold of our own brutalness, We must now complete the contest of our spiraling darkness.
You have watched,
You observed,
You circled me,
You are found wanting.
Our absence of that flavorless idea of mercy bound emotion,
Our malevolent and insatiable natures shall circle one another,
Our bodies will soon be spinning in grim unison, Our lives cast at utter odds in the gambit for intended supremacy.
Your ire will come,
Your life now forfeit,
Your body to be broken,
Your existence ended, Your body rendered,
Your essence revolving.
The Hand That is Dealt (Valkyrie)
The hand that is dealt, from emergence to ashes, Unable to quell that need within, eternally alone, Until I saw the fire in your eyes.
Wrathful fire, flames that burn with fervor and fury, Simultaneously they spark, incinerating us constantly, Until I saw the fear in my soul.
The hand that is dealt, from emergence to ashes, Unable to fall without a fight, unable to submit, Until I saw the fire in your eyes.
Wrathful vengeance intertwined with intense craving, Simultaneously needing the kill, Struggle for control, Until one of us drowns.
The hand that is dealt, from emergence to ashes, Unable to relent, enforcing the arousing struggle, Until one of us is extinguished.
Wrathful pride forces my hand, and I offer the sport, Simultaneously unable to surrender, bloodied hands, Until one of us is subdued.
The hand that is dealt, from emergence to ashes,
I lay my cards on the table,
To oppose the other’s supremacy, ‘We pick the prey of our opponent, And the kill must go ahead.
Regardless of attachment, Regardless of innocence, Regardless of kinship.
The loser forfeits freedom, to the will of the other,
And the victor determines the price!’
Confident of my ability, I await his response, And my impending sovereignty.
Hold’em Callous and Close (Dyer-Bolique)
The challenge thrown at my feet, acceptably met in delight!
The cold occupant of my blood-drenched void, screaming in silent elation;
Twin, opposing souls to deliver sweet agonies in the form of the other’s plight,
Cold psyche casting its devious intent to you, my beloved’s, murderous provocation.
The flop
The beginning of our macabre game,
A round preceding the expected in escalation.
The challenge, wonderous in dark anticipation of the sublime killing to come,
Gambling between polluted souls, concluding in the winner’s roaring dominance.
Mind cast and ready for the deliverance of innocent lives, sorely to succumb,
Or dice soon to be cast against the other passions of our true disturbance.
The Turn
The opportunity to offer the unexpected,
A round fitting of horrendous continuation in stakes.
The challenge magnificent in completion.
Finality, bound in its termination.
What cold desires shall we reign on the other, devoid of man’s consequences?
To relish the suffering in each other, soon be dealt in tones of goaded exaltation.
The deck stacked with nausea inducing repercussions.
The River
If you do indeed make it this far,
A round with all on the line, or one last trick to ruin.
Nostalgic Whist (Valkyrie)
Exhilaration flares in your own anticipation, Unaware that I have completed a thorough investigation!
Located the weakness, identified my trump card, And am eager to play.
Enthusiasm for the game’s degradation,
Unwittingly suspecting my abject failure, poor stakes indeed!
Nostalgia, his only childhood friend, and confidante, Succulent in his ignorance.
My hand is played, the aces polished and laid, Only friend, aside from our strange dalliance, only friend.
Lost in time to sentimental memories, but still treasured,
Chris’s chips are down.
Driver by trade, effortless to entrap in the merciless snare,
Summoned by a phone call, self-employed, others unaware.
Innocent by no means, a secret penchant for the bottle,
Accidents in the rear-view mirror.
I hand you, my beloved enemy, the number,
‘The punishment must fit the crime,’ I remind,
‘In the wine cellar below you will find a wine press, This must be the tool of his demise.’
I quell my urge to laugh, sweet is my revenge!
Surely Dyer-Bolique has not been so thorough, Surely my aces have trumped his hand.
The Croupiers Vintage (Dyer-Bolique)
I stand stoic and ready, unashamed or moved by your command. You set your cards at play, the demise of discerned brethren, to be mortally harmed.
I do as you instructed!
Unwavering in grotesque purpose, Dialing up my spirited friend, My voice highly insistent.
He arrives by car at the location given, Reeking of apricot brandy. I demand not to be driven,
I guide him inside to turn him into Chianti.
He stumbles at my behest,
The stairs his worst enemy,
Footing not the best,
Unaware of impending calamity.
Inquiries are introduced,
At sight of the ancient wine press, My intended victim seduced, Ignorant, and soon to be put to rest.
I entice him closer,
‘Dear friend of old,
Never fear of getting sober, Wine favors the bold’.
Shuffling on to impending doom,
His bright red face, Soon to be utterly removed, Welcomed to its final resting place.
Where grapes are crushed,
His head peeks in,
A turn of the crank, Murder is my mortal sin.
Slowly I churn,
His body goes numb,
For out of his ears,
Spurts the remainder of cranium.
Body convulses in surprising throes,
My dear friend Chris, Out the press’s tap, Your tainted blood flows.
My task now complete,
A friend extinguished, I shall now greet, You with your contestant.
As chunks of jellied cerebrum,
Coat my bloodied hands,
‘Dearest Valkyrie,
Give up your brotherly cherub.
For it’s the angelic Jon,
You shall terminate,
Completely sever his throat,
With crimson hues he shall be innate.
Your choice of weapon, creative must be,
A rusty instrument will work quite well,
Perhaps a farmer’s sickle,
To send the angelic boy to hell?’
Her Poker Face (Valkyrie)
You drag the pickled remains to the alter,
And carve the marinaded meat… Without hesitation, without consideration, Frozen in the realms of a psychopath.
Observing, an internal alarm creeps over my mind,
Tarnished by your researched request,
So alike in thought and deed that you anticipated my every move,
And forced the Blackjack into my shaking palm.
Tender slices fall from nostalgia’s thundery storm,
Bagged and stored in ice, as the remains catch fire, ‘Fuel and food,’ such hollow words from my own being.
Dyer-Bolique in name, diabolique in nature.
Our abode heats up furiously, fueled by your
anhedonia,
Trapped like a rabbit forced between the headlights.
I acquiesce in deed, though my mind cries from its depths.
The call is made. My brother comes.
Jon, the younger cherub, in youth under my
protection,
Unable to envisage any harm upon him, his big sister. I see the child engaging me through adult eyes, pleased.
Small talk persists as YOU look on, growing ever impatient.
At length, caught in my own trap, I lead him into the abyss,
The sickle awaits, lurching on the shelves, just as Dyer-Bolique planned.
Mind’s eye opens to the image of his demise, A slit to the throat, gaping wound.
His head tips back, cries stifled, Blood pours relentlessly, Guilt enshrouds.
Mind’s eye opens to the image of his demise,
The child, not the man, adoring,
Unable to comprehend, Unaware of my ego, Guilt enshrouds.
Dyer-Bolique redirects my dear brother, quick decoy, And surreptitiously forces the sickle in my hand. Dyer-Bolique smirks with utmost cruelty, Aroused by owning the winning hand.
Ice flows through my veins, and steams,
Conflict causes a quivering,
Sickle drops,
‘You win!’
The Fall of the House of Cards (Dyer-Bolique)
I watch on as you fail, quivering as you lament in the cruelest of tasks given,
My unholy command for the blood of your untainted brother not forthcoming!
Resolution now guides my form, smirking in shadowed ecstasy.
I retrieve your dropped farming implement with steady hand,
The sickle’s hilt firm in my practiced and unforgiving palm…
Silently I move to end your undying, fraternal love,
For I grab Jon’s head with a menacing grip,
His widened eyes betraying realization, A brisk stoke, a deluge of arterial spray, Another stroke coats you further.
The shrouded air, cerise in hue,
A third severing silky sinew,
Forth ripping cartilage,
No fifth produced, Rapid hand tugs, Decapitation.
Screams, cries, and a veritable cacophony of sound do greet me,
For I am victorious and ecstatic at the true joy soon coming,
‘Now Mistress of Macabre, Valkyrie you are completely mine,
Subservient to my will in a game you introduced. If fate were my ally, its smiles on favorably,
Your ensuing slavery now commencing. The head of your brother gifted, Booming shrieks retreating.
You whimper as broken,
Your power depleted, A self-made victim, Now surrenders.
My true power,
My iron will,
Your life…
Mine!’
Scene Five: The Magician’s Craft
The Trickster Dyer-Bolique (Valkyrie)
The trickster Dyer-Bolique made his pledge, Attended as my patient, faking closure, Allowed me to see what he wanted me to see. Scales fall from my eyes, blinded by vanity, Arrogance’s pride.
The trickster Dyer-Bolique made his pledge,
A mask of irony worn to our first supper, Allowed me to see what he wanted me to see, Yet guided my culinary feast, my plan anticipated.
Hubris’s guide.
The trickster Dyer-Bolique made his turn, Turning feigned paranoia into trust, Allowed me to see what he wanted me to see.
Manipulated the hunt, but his cold heart chose me.
Desire’s disdain.
The trickster Dyer-Bolique made his turn,
Fogging my mind with self-doubt and fear,
Allowed me to see what he wanted me to see. Twisted my hand, forced the game to proceed yet still, Chose me.
The trickster Dyer-Bolique won with prestige,
Embraced the test, for his friend he had no heed, Allowed me to see what he wanted me to see. Pushed my weakened limits, possession his intention, Tricked me.
The trickster Dyer-Bolique won with prestige,
‘In honor of a game won fairly and played well,
I surrender my life to my now captor’s hands, And only ask that the mercy in your heart does swell.’ A Morbid Misdirection.
The Naïve Valkyrie (Dyer-Bolique)
The Naïve Valkyrie, too confident in your haste, Those who would be devoured by you, issued swift invite,
For you saw what I allowed you to perceive, A repour in civility concealing a desire to deceive. Pride’s punishment, Watch closely.
The Naïve Valkyrie, driven on by blood fueled salacity,
Preoccupation and control of those you ensnared, For you saw what I allowed you to perceive, Absorbed in your own hellish and brazen cravings. Lust’s lament, Watch tentatively.
The Naïve Valkyrie, murderous movements filled by outrage,
An aspirant in righteousness and spirited vengeance, For you saw what I allowed you to perceive, Provoked on course for retributive and unrelenting justice.
Wrath’s worthlessness, Watch over here.
The Naïve Valkyrie, resentment of your possession’s past life,
Indignant and malice compelled you to seek the selftormented demise,
For you saw what I allowed you to perceive, Compulsive in single minded direction, ever causing a painful decision. Envious enmity, Watch carefully.
The Naïve Valkyrie, a glad reprieve I shall grant you, solace and reprieve,
Your far travelled palate accustomed only to the finest,
See what you wish to see, as I want perceived, Enjoy my succulent offerings, prepared only from the finest fare.
Gluttonous gourmand.
Are you ready?
The Naïve Valkyrie, if you chose what you should perceive,
You would no doubt be accustomed to that taste, For within the trappings of your own larder and kitchen.
I processed the meal you consume, Not wanting your brother Jon… To go to waste!
The Magic of Puree Pathology (Valkyrie)
Table set for two, romantic in candlelight, Subtly dimming your true intentions. Flickering souls tarnished by night, Dazed by your misdirection.
Shock sets in, and passes over me, a whisper, Lovers speaking in hushed dusk tones. Serving my sibling, unwelcome offer, But a grim offering none the less.
Heaving on each mouthful, my insides taut, Eyes pleading heartfelt with you to stop. Lust and sadism indistinguishable, And I serve both masters.
Pulsating inside as you watch my tears, Always manipulating my weakness. Relishing every mouthful forced, Rising to my suffering.
The meal is complete, but this is initiation.
I sense that your plans run deeper.
Advantageous secrets, Trust misplaced, My downfall.
Gazing love and fear’s cocktail into your dark eyes,
I attempt once again to gain your absent mercy, ‘Dyer-Bolique, with higher hand and magic art, You have won.
I submit to your will as you wish,
But plead that you show mercy.’
The Vicious Voila (Dyer-Bolique)
Amidst hazel light of candle luminosity,
Amongst the array of sordid creations, Mercy entreated, but shall not be shown, Your own predispositions seldom cloned.
You request a respite from the hand that feeds, Always pleading the case of subservience.
But my own internal undertaking soon to fulfillment, All I can do is endure your savory and inflictive tones.
My own metamorphosis soon upon us,
Your descent into madness vital to my cause, The corruption of your body and mind, A lasting gift in purification’s form.
Slowly I cater to your physical needs,
Dwindling ever more at the flick of my whim, Cautious in the shattering of your psyche, All aiding my revelatory becoming.
Though wheelchair bound and intravenous drip aided, My dark being nurtures your transition. Loving and solemn, I don’t say a word, Deprivation of conversation a useful device.
Great timing upon us as I finally speak,
‘My sweet dark angel in depths of sinister desire, I removed your imperfections, unsightly, not needed.
I commenced with your febrile leg,
Voila!’
The Caged Bird’s Aria (Valkyrie)
Dependent on the doting demon that enslaved me,
Crippled by your steady hand, pain thwarted,
By that which you administer cautiously,
Ensuring perpetual imprisonment.
Dyer-Bolique, you removed an unwanted lower limb,
Chaining body and soul indefinitely to your sin, Your silent whispers mouth ‘no pain.’ Singing in my wicked steel cage.
In your sights before I knew of your shadowy existence,
Targeting your kindred spirit, only to cage her, That was always YOUR design!
Words of surrender no longer pass my lips,
It is given wordlessly, and enforced aggressively, Duplicitous Dyer-Bolique; protector and prison guard.
Still, you share your torture of others with me, Still, you touch me with rapturous passion, Driven by the thrill of my defeat.
Swollen with my suffering.
I do not speak, but I sing to appease your fervent ire, The dulcet melody disarms your fortifications, And I please you with my passionate tones.
Day and night merge, submission is a waiting game,
And the opportune moment arrives,
As you descend to our basement,
I try to flee.
The chair so thoughtfully given, drives forth,
Towards the unguarded portcullis,
The key is turned quietly,
Handle pulled down,
Door manipulated…
As freedom calls to the caged bird within, Your shadow looms behind me, Laughing, scolding.
I resign to his tones, His tongue licking my tears, Glowering over loss’s humiliation.
‘I warned you,’ he whispers, ‘On deaf ears it fell,
It breaks my heart to inflict this destructive, cruel hell, But one arm will suffer your leg’s degradation.
Boxed or caged with one arm, and one leg,
You shall appreciate my protection so much more,
Without further ado, I shall operate on you,
Then love you, so you will leave me nevermore.’
As freedom is denied to the caged bird within,
Your shadow constructs my all,
And as you steer me astray,
I hear the stagehand cry,
‘Time for curtain fall!’
Intermission: Mutual Dreams
Mutual Dreams I
Lady Valkyrie, exiled to Hyperborea from an unforgiving world,
Sits in the remnants of a huge palace.
Empty and desolate,
Only her maid in waiting to speak to.
Tapestries, weaved by her own hand hang on the stone walls,
Sparse gothic furnishings echo the vacuum within her own heart.
She is not able for sewing, nor for crafting her poetry.
Her senses, her sub-consciousness,
Her entire being seems to preoccupy the mind.
A voice she cannot place,
Or a face she cannot quite remember emerges, Haunts her waking nightmares.
She almost anticipates his arrival as if he speaks to her from afar.
Valkyrie wonders at the fairy-tale her mind creates, Consequence of eternal isolation.
Eternity, such a lonely, barren landscape.
She retires to her chamber,
Palatial gothic suite; mahogany four poster bed and chaise-longue.
An eloquent balcony sealed by two great glass doors create a mirror to the world.
Drapes and linen match the wall hangings, almost glowing by candlelight with a deep scarlet hue. Valkyrie unlaces her bodice, The heavy dress to fall to the floor.
An accentuating ivory laced shift hangs loose about her barely covered breasts.
The reverie comes again, as does an unprecedented wave of heat.
She fans herself and opens the glass doors as if willed and entranced by an external ideal.
He haunts her,
The idea of him, A strange comfort within, Little regard for its meaning.
Almost forlorn, and with heavy eyes she extinguishes the candles.
Only the light of the moon casts a shadowy illumination about the room.
She lays on her bed, hands backed onto her pillow with a suggestion of submission.
Fingers drop to her chest, pull the laces open and rips the crucifix from her throat.
The voice is stronger now, his will determined to be obeyed.
She lays back and waits, comforted by his impending arrival.
He watches…
Dyer-Bolique slowly continues his stalk, The cool night air matching the exanimate blood within his veins.
His timeless pursuit of darkest desires nearing their own sensuous and cruel fruition.
Forever driving his will within her own thoughts, The sweet seduction.
He Waits.
The Casement of glass, willed open at the expectation of his arrival,
A grim manipulation in his timeless art of enticing corruption.
He finds himself perched upon them, as if beast and exquisite night were one.
Gazing upon the creature before his time-worn eyes.
Eyes that have witnessed wonders,
Soaked up the atrocities of their master’s hands, Imbibing the serenity of beauty within his grasp.
What pleasures,
What pain,
What bliss,
What sorrow, What satisfaction.
What iniquitous love awaits him?
He moves,
One delicately clawed hand gliding up the window's frame,
Gently caressing the woodwork as if manipulating the lady's throat.
A gentle manoeuvre of his own body into the waiting room. No sound given.
A spectre of mist gliding upon the floor,
Guided by isolated pining and ardour driven thirst of an entity born of solitude.
Brooding in wicked fascination as he absorbs her presence,
There is darkness in life, and there is light, You are the light of all lights.
He draws closer still,
His touch,
A taloned hand reaching out drawing upon his prone prey.
His fascination,
His desire,
His chance of loving redemption.
A gentle brush against a wanting throat, fingertips obsessing over flesh and the flow of contents within.
A light skim of lips trailing, His seduction complete.
The absolute determination of Dyer-Bolique,
His quest for the purest intimacy of life, love, and living pursuits, all but consume him.
As he will soon consume.
Sorrowful and rejoicing whispers shared upon the touch of his mouth against bare flesh, Her fingertips caress the creature's hair, Waiting, anticipating, offering herself freely to his desires.
An overwhelming sense of tragedy washes over Valkyrie as she lays in Dyer-Bolique’s haunting embrace.
A life half-lived, devoid of its fullness in the subconscious absence of the missing piece of her soul.
Mistake after devastating mistake.
Longing that burned within as if the universe had deprived her of her true heart.
Her legs gracefully dance about his body, clasping around his back and drawing his being into her. Becoming whole, Becoming one.
Destined to find each other though the forlorn wait proved agonising,
As does the thought of ever losing him again, that familiar stranger.
She could not suffer death to rip them apart, more unbearable waiting.
She matches his cool kisses with an unprecedented ardour,
A desperate passion born from years of hollow aching.
Her hand grasps his arm in a wanton surrender, submitting to his will.
Offering her body and soul to his passions and pleasures, no matter how deviant.
Her mind bizarrely linked to his, she pulls down her shift exposing her throat to him,
Succumbing to that painfully exquisite longing. Intimate intrusion,
Dyer-Bolique’s aspiring seduction and dark fulfilment within her hand.
Her touch, excruciating in its elegance.
The reminder of an existence wrought of secluded love,
A memory of past longing, insatiable as her limbs entwine his enraptured being.
A heart, once occupied by the sweetest surrender of unwanted conquests,
Finally entranced in purest devotion to the creature below.
His form suspends its beat and wanting advance.
His body stills….
Hesitating, careful to pursue this ancient obsession with cautious mercy.
To never succumb to his natural iniquitous and corrupt nature.
To cherish the beauty within her touch….and the forgotten feeling of life within his own.
His once empty soul, soon to be filled, reels against dark temptation of sanguineous craving, Of insatiable and salacious appetite, Torment of Taste.
Her neck and body, writhing yet prone,
The willing sacrifice before him,
Her smooth and unblemished skin only broken by the course and pulsation;
That which lies beneath its sensuous surface.
A temptation driving his florid eyes mad,
The opportunity of taste, of obtaining her completely.
His lamented lips move over her exposed flesh, savouring the unison to come.
His insentient tongue, gently caressing the exposed throat,
Assimilating a life into his own abominable existence.
His perished fangs descend,
Valkyrie gasps in a climactic release as he buries his weapons deep within her being.
Her eyes grow heavy to his seduction and her body relaxes at his exquisitely painful touch.
Mutual Dreams II
The sands of time pass slowly, moments drenching the hourglass of destiny.
Valkyrie glances furtively to her beckoning window, Her hands caressing an angelic yet marred throat, awaiting the demon's lusty return.
Self-sacrificing and subdued,
Her desirous visitor does not appear.
She strips and adorns a crimson shift, Her senses chant his most beloved hue, and she
stands before the ornate mirror, Gazing at her mortal form.
A haze washes over her, longing for his touch, Swirls into a glassy, alluring mist.
His gloved hand reaches through the opened, secret door,
Reaches for her in that dreamy trance.
Her eyelids grow heavy as, mesmerised, she accepts his offering,
Surrenders to his grasp.
Seamlessly, she drifts through the looking glass into
an ancient corridor,
Beyond the known avenues of the palace.
Disembodied arms venture through the walls, Illuminate her passage with bended candlelight. The masked Dyer-Bolique leads her onwards, down into the dungeon of his world…
Into the imprisoned labyrinth of her mind. Down winding steps until he provides safe carriage on horseback.
Deeper they travel until the scant current of an underground lake swamps its blemished shores.
He lifts her from steed to gondola,
Placing his most prized possession at the helm as he punts through the caverns.
At length they disembark,
He guides her on with the swift and steady sweep of his cloaked arms.
Arched, oak doors greet them,
Deftly he places a laced mask over her besotted eyes, The doors swing open revealing a hall of splendour drown in music,
Filled with masked lovers, adorned in a harlequin of colour.
Dyer-Bolique links his arm through hers,
Sweeps her into the spectacle, gliding before the mirror clad walls. Lifting her,
Turning her,
All the while his lips brushing hers and his teeth grazing and teasing her throat.
Her heart pounds at his powerful touch.
The journey achingly swift.
The Dance commences, the Molino Macabre.
His own face, a masked profile of silken porcelain, obscuring the obsidian soul within.
A twist within his gloved palm, sequestering her body into the desired motion,
He who stands on one leg and his prize of mind and earthly flesh, pirouetting about him. A subtle display of possession, an exhibit of dominance,
Of shattered will and the reconstruction therein.
Her mortal manifestation gliding upon the sleek marble floors,
Hesitant to leave his enraptured touch, finds herself- In solitary step.
The Hall empty, void of the array of colours, of lovers, and the eerie tones of lost music. Absent of her sanguineness apparition; Her caller, her phantom.
She glances in trepidation about the candle lit gloom of the lonesome ball room.
Her compulsive-desire for her nameless sovereign building inside her shrouded mind.
Fervour seizes her body in longing anticipation, A draft of iced melancholy following its rapturous wake…
Succumbing to the anguish of abject emptiness, she falls dejectedly,
Tiles greet her forlorn form with the cold incandescence of unfulfilled promises and light…
Despondent,
Sorrowful,
Abandoned.
The candles fade,
The darkness ensues, The Volta begins.
The despondency of neglect gentle brushed aside, As a whisper of touch deftly initiates its own dance upon the nape of her neck. Growing in delicate expediency,
The mist of touch evolving
Gentle, yet taloned and wraith like claws.
Claws gracefully admiring her exposed flesh, Flickering over the previous point of blood driven penetration.
Instinctively she turns in expectancy,
Wishing the face of her lord, her love, to occupy her eyes…
Alas, it is not forthcoming.
Before her head collapses once more into detection, The room blazes again with an amber luminosity! Shadows that had fought to instil a veil of sadness are driven back.
The empty space begins to hum with the best of
savage music,
Rising to an explosive crescendo!
The tune peaks at its zenith,
Valkyrie's body is thrust upon its own feet,
Her arms guided by unseen yet, spectral hands, Manipulating her into a promenade of sweeping motion.
She swirls across the newly glistening floor, Caressing hands stroke the curves and contours of the lady’s aching sensual being, Ever returning to the neck,
The invisible apparition takes form. The mists and hands of the revenant gradually materialise.
Her body is once again spun,
Guided by desire,
She halts and faces the crimson tainted eyes of her
Phantom,
Eyes that greet hers, absorbing every inch of her being, Consuming thought and time.
Arms seize the small of her supple back, Draw her wanton mortality towards his manifesting and undead shape.
Seemingly becoming one entity, as the hall is suddenly
filled with carnivalesque gyrations, Returning lovers.
Masked.
Present.
Absorbed.
Valkyrie and Dyer-Bolique’s bodies entwine,
A haunted and fiendish matrimony,
Together they rise;
Transient, Unapproachable, Unattainable.
Casting his mind, and passions, into hers,
'Rabidly, my mind beats against yours, and your soul succumbs.'
They float, drop, sweetly elated.
His lips cascade across her throat, her neck, inviting his second penetration…
Locked in his possessive arms, Valkyrie sways, Her mind mesmerised by the influence of her unwittingly sought and accepted master, His power emits a quiver of fear, an earthquake of desire through her very soul.
Willingly she would give herself to him in an instant, A sacrifice to his wanton carnality.
She offers her throat, but he does not acquiesce.
Refuses to surrender control,
He has dominion and will yield to nothing, For that is her destiny.
He pulls her closer, his chest pressing against her
heaving breasts,
Her body betraying her at every touch. A complex and contrasting array of feelings, Lust that knows no bounds.
Self-sacrifice is her eternal gift to him. She folds her arm about his neck, running her fingertips through his hair,
Ever pleading through her gaze for him to take her in every way.
Each moment unrequited a painful demonstration of his hold over her,
His ability to deny her his hunger; a veritable hell. She wishes the others away, wishes that only the two of them existed,
He hears her thoughts.
Her eyes grow heavy, and close as if instructed.
When she finally opens them, they are alone.
Vaguely she remembers being lifted, carried in his arms,
She lays once again in his passionate arms,
Her breathing quickens,
Her body wraps about him,
Moves against him,
Driven by ardent longing,
Infatuated obsession, one that defies time and space.
Longing, once again, to be his.
Her body…his,
Her mind …rapt,
Her will…given,
Her desires…conceded, Her soul…HIS!
His hands slowly dance about her wanton flesh, Absorbed with the longing of ancient hunger.
His feral eyes, cloud in sanguineous tinges and flecks; Absorb the creature below him, devouring her essence in vampiric delight.
The bodies join,
Words of timeless love spoken upon sealed lips, An understanding of each other's desires obtained via savage touch and lust.
Her body and his, intertwined in the rapture of impulse,
The ivory and silken sheets, a symbol of purity, a. Their beings occupy the air about them, meeting each other's desires in undulating fervour.
The silken bed linens soon depart,
Valkyrie and Dyer-Bolique succumb to the laws of physics,
Reunite with the berth from whence they rose.
The world of mortal man offers no jurisdiction for the united pair, Bodies one,
Flesh merged,
Lips fed,
Souls amalgamated,
Passion fuelled, Climax approaches…
Fangs……bared!
Valkyrie tilts her head back and raises her slender
throat in anticipation, Willing him to love her,
To offer her life and death, satisfaction, and pain, All quelled with one single moment of penetration.
She waits, anticipating…
Mutual Dreams III
Subduing his prey,
Her desire temporarily unquenched, the painful ache within unsated,
Their bodies drift, intertwined.
His feet force hers apart,
Her knees press into his hips, tense with another pressing urgency.
Desires combine.
Eager to feel his body dually lancing hers, Desperate to offer him an explosive satisfaction only akin to her own heightened response,
She surrenders and sacrifices herself willingly to the viper’s phallic touch.
In one swift move he ensures that their bodies are one.
The heat of his volcanic girth swells further, Fires of sensual friction and tension burn within.
She runs her feet gently up his calves,
Beyond his thighs,
Encourages further his body's stealthy, knowledgeable gait.
Parallel desires consume the flaming desperation within.
Her waist tenses with each pleasurable electric thrust, She pleads for more.
Eyes and minds meet,
Softly imploring for tender caresses that deep bite.
Desperate to feed him from her life's fluid whilst he imparts his.
Cries out for the brush of immortality's sweet kiss,
As he fills her with streaming desire,
And then to feed from his elegantly toxic veins.
Eager to please,
Eager to give herself utterly unto him for eternity.
He senses her self-sacrifice.
One question escapes her ripened lips,
'Pain?'
She shows no fear,
She shows no aversion,
She shows no dread of sensation.
Wanton infatuation embraces all that he is, Slowing his strokes, he looks deeply into the soul of his prey…
Their beings entwined, passions met but dually unspent,
The world of living man, a mere fleeting memory of mortality,
Dwindling in the face and conflagration of passion. The cessation of life within his insistent form, Betrayed by its own motions of desire.
Edging and denying her ultimate release.
Pleas and yearning fall upon a being once driven by love…
A love that devoured him in its ancient removal, Recasting his soul and entity anew.
Her hands and his now entwine as the next step of their culmination arises…
Two separate beings destroyed in the presence, Devotion and rapture… Soon to be born anew!
Motion set upon fire, his masterful manoeuvring,
Complimented by her own supple form,
Her pulse of sanguineous life, Craving lips about her, Imbibing beauty.
Impending sacrifice upon the approaching pinnacle of unity.
The force of pelvic intoxication recedes,
'No Pain. Only a life and love of but a dream.' His words galvanize the pair, rejuvenation of unsanctified unity,
Ravenous in each other's touch and unholy feel, Bodies writhing, advancing to needed release. His single penetration pulsating towards the
exanimate explosion so desired, Their bodies merge,
Darkly glorious salacious want, Moving furiously in desire.
His pinnacle rises, his sinister seed exploding…
His second penetration imminent,
Fangs drawn,
Her neck pierced,
His ungodly offering gifted.
Her climax absorbed by his experience,
Her life force pulled into his death,
Her blood savoured as ambrosia unto the thirst driven,
Condemned occupants of deserted hells.
Leaning back from his conquest, his taloned hands draw upon her sweat beaded cheeks.
'Drink!’ He commands…
In a serpent’s flash, Dyer-Bolique slices his flesh, Deeply parting skin from undead skin upon his chest. His other hand cups Valkyrie’s chin, Draws her to him.
Hunger swells on her lips,
She submits to his will,
He forces her mouth to his breast,
She licks the blood,
Eyes gazing up at him with an infuriated ferocity. Lust hangs heavily in the air,
Sordid, insatiable attraction pulses furiously about them.
Love guided through obsession, A death like possession, Oceans of torrential release.
His macabre wielding hand,
Guiding her desirous lust, Controlling her, Owning her.
His eternal possession.
Act Two: A Monstrous Tapestry
Scene One: Vrykolakos
A Monstrous Tapestry (Valkyrie)
We darken our table once more,
A sombre requiem lament within,
Threnody for my wings so cruelly clipped. Human liver between teeth, As I seek remedy.
Fear resides elsewhere, I am bold,
Confidant in the love my cold heart still holds.
An alien situation for most, confidence exasperates. Human kidney on tongue, As I suggest remedy.
‘Our tapestry is woven, our story now spun,
Yet the narrative is crying, seeking pastures new,
A monstrous genre befitting, lives taken just as before,
Each death reflecting a sub-genre of horror,
Enticing great, masterful gore.’
Feeding into your swelling ego,
And hardened, ostentatious pride,
I observe as the concept surges into design. Your tongue between lips, As you reflect remedy.
Feigning truth-marred submission,
I encourage your darkness to emerge,
And as your lips release mine the story begins.
Your thoughts between mine, As we reflect remedy, A new dalliance does begin.
Hellion Intrigue (Dyer-Bolique)
‘You cater to my darkest inclinations, Proud and thoughtful in unholy intent.
Perhaps sinful lust serves ferocity's menace?
A different course of action may pay penance, Exsanguination disguised as vampiric essence spent?
You cater to my darkest inclinations.
Perhaps united by nature’s electrical divinations, Powered by sky’s spectre and bodily dismemberment, Force of mother earth could birth a hulking menace!?
You forget memory’s soul and blade’s consensus, Upon savagery’s beauty and steel's resentment.
You cater to my darkest inclinations.
Thoughts of loved ones renewed from hell's nations,
Once more given licence to occupy living continents.
Devouring our victim’s flesh with relish and menace.
The undertaking proposed utterly tremendous, my appetite is aflame, our becoming truly transcendent!
You cater to my darkest inclinations, however…
Where to begin this burgeoning menace?’
Feeding His Ego (Valkyrie)
‘You feed from me within my dreams,
Notions of a Wallachian Count penetrating,
Moving on to more malevolent themes,
A thirst derived from fangs exsanguinating.’
Your lusty eyes lock on my shell, so hollow,
‘Underground groups seek online for domination,
A vampiric master to feed, worship and follow,
Mausoleum bound, grant her exsanguination,
And let her, in her own desire, wallow.’
Alluring offering, sacrifice to your fallen whim,
I continue my discourse, the penitent’s flow, ‘To penetrate adorn a sharpened, bladed ring.’ Feeding your ego, I watch your skin glow.
So, it is set, the upcoming scene,
And my body is safe from his ego supreme.
Dragons Tithe (Dyer-bolique)
An Acolyte’s tithe, throat teeming, and hands bound tight,
Within this holy and sanctified crypt, sacrificial.
The wanton sow brimming with savoury’s delight, For within my thirst’s potentiality, we feast on her tonight!
‘A consort’s tribute received with resurging adoration! For such sweet suffering could be painted on a blank canvas!
Durations of which are relevant to her last view and exsanguination!
It continues the struggle's upturned pendulum, true pirouettes of relevance!
You have done well this night, my flight aberration!’
With inspired license I commence my artistic homage, Drawing swift and deep of this writing aesthetic, Revelling in the gaze of veracity’s haemorrhaging carnage,
Simpering quells, resistance deemed most pathetic. My chalice is full, lifeforce of the oblation, my arty theatrics.
‘Join me hence, my half-dismembered plaything, Sup of her essence and join me in the banquet!
Absorb a creature’s life, hasten the deadening, Abound in my mercy of Nosferatu’s dragon, my becoming!’
A Vampiric Tribute
A nightmarish canvas is flayed before me,
Her responses swift to my lover’s desire, Preparing to sate blood and fantasy’s dichotomy, She falls into the bonds of my unrepentant Dyer.
Tarpaulin shackled and dragged to the tomb,
She struggles and kicks like a rabid dog, Chained and tormented under death’s loom, Confused she twists and dances in the smog.
You draw from her suffering a wanton mirth,
You draw from your ring a talon like shank,
You draw from her throat her life force’s worth, You draw from my essence an evil so rank.
We feed on the outpour of crimson’s warm spice,
We feed on desire’s engorging, thrumming flow, We feed on my terror of your tyrannical ice,
We feed on your adoration of my submission’s glow.
The Void’s Desire (Dyer-Bolique)
I draw on the intoxication and arousal, tempted by oblivion,
My darkened Self swells, merging with the possibilities of forever.
Your body, my temple of indulgence and brazen passion,
Our unity ordained by the baptism and blood born of purpose’s Nether.
My desires soon met, your body displayed upon an altar of forever,
Your submittance complete, content to accept the ferocity of my passion.
Our minds fixate upon lust’s savage form, absolute as souls entwine in disastrous nether,
My dominance of my lady’s entity nearing its most pure form of oblivion.
Your supple and damaged physique, receives my rewards of violent passion,
Our dance macabre endures, the desires of flesh spawned of evil and nether.
My martyrdom of your faux innocence continues its ascent to obtain oblivion.
I segmented your limbs once, a culling to serve only my rancid ardour forever.
We have begun the newest discovery of flesh.
We have endured the climax of twinning passion.
We have seen the void and revelled in its eternity.
Oblivion,
Forever,
Passion, The Nether.
Lasciviousness (Valkyrie)
My body betrays me as I succumb to carnality,
Your touch renders all hope futile, oozing sensuality,
Driving into me, drenched with turgid salaciousness, I surrender entirely to viciously intrusive licentiousness.
Tongue and hands accompany your lecherous symphony,
A masterpiece sordid with blood tarnished melody,
Ever meeting my lips through passion’s rhapsody, Until I can no longer thwart the inevitable crescendo’s entropy.
I am your Venus de Milo, sculpted living art,
Prize possession to own and survey,
But my mind remains stealthy, not so my heart, As its shadow still wishes to obey.
As we lay naked, imbibing stale residue,
I make my plea to his ear,
Prosthetics to give further loving to you, My hand continues to flatter his gear.
Scene Two: FrankenKyrie
Galvanization (Dyer-bolique)
‘Subjugation of your body and soul,
Welcomed with gracious heart, at the hands of my carnal desire.
Your will dully accepted in delight, with gratitude’s regard, and absence of mind.
New limbs I shall impart, via force of nature, and calculated dementia,
You shall be articulated this night.
‘Oh, a missing right leg, left as stigmatized stump, grinning with keloid’s mirth,
Soon repaired by swift scalpel stroke, and mechanics of a Winchester’s girth.
What’s that you say? A missing arm, once severed at my behest.
Yes, it was discarded,
In the larder breaded and barded.
I ate it with feverish pickled herring and beer!
Have no fear, the doctor is here!
‘As night approaches, and lightening encroaches, you will be made kind of whole tonight.
So, sit back, enjoy it!
Don’t plead or attempt to spoil it, This won’t sting a bit.
Your scars were ridden, Your body to do as bidden.
As the moon hides its light,
Galvanization is coming,
Victor, I am becoming,
As the electric storm wields its might!’
Valkyrie Unbound (Valkyrie)
Flow of morphia abates, and the unbound does stand, First time for a stranger, born callously to a new land. Before the mirror I stretch, and absorb my new form, A creature so profound that the vultures do swarm.
Sabbatical taken, but a new course this does warrant,
Reluctantly I scribe tales of immediate resignation, Further surrendering your bleak will abhorrent, A smug smirk and you post without hesitation.
Broken, monstrous psyche, driven to decisions naïve, Broken, monstrous body, reflecting my spirit’s frayed weave.
Flow of morphia abates, and I take my clumsy stride, Each stumble, forfeiture. Each fall, you defeat me, My only Shangri-La: In your shadow I hide.
Perseverance, a necessity.
Broken, monstrous psyche, driven to the next liquidation,
Broken, monstrous body, reflecting new skill of extermination.
Your possession,
Your creature,
Your plaything, Your weapon.
Creature and Flame (Dyer-Bolique)
Destruction and Rebirth, a song rendering Death’s domineering canter still.
Eternity that once was my arena, crumbles in the wake of unsanctified design.
Abjections within purgatory fail on the majesty of my work’s symphony and skill.
Terrified, the cries of mortality that diminish against my ascending crescendo divine.
Humbled shall be the hosts of heaven, and the dregs the of lowly hells by your will!
Beauty is now in the guise of your hybrid body, shaped on purity of flesh and machination.
Elation of your humanoid limbs, amalgamated rifle as both crutch and replacement leg.
Cleaved arm now restored to glory; its whispered venom shall dispense my unholy creation. Omnipotence resides within your cry, silently calling to be allowed to feed, pity shall beg.
Mercy shall not cast its dice, justice will not intercede, non-spared our indignation.
Integrity destroyed against the fervour of your Urumi appendage.
Neither innocence nor temperance safe from my degradation.
‘Go now child, dispatch my FLAME!’
Legacy’s Lash (Valkyrie)
Amid life’s errant metamorphosis, I extend my lash, Practising the bladed whip’s gait, I distend my lash.
You watch, titivated, and stirred, by your warrior, Wedged stance and motivated, you commend my lash.
Behind my bright eyes I plot your gruesome downfall, All you witness is an artist’s kata, as I tend my lash.
Distracting you, my primary task, misdirected magician,
My intentions impervious, as I comprehend my lash.
Fidelity offered and devotion bequeathed, I ascend, Depending on you as you fend for me, I transcend my lash.
Petrarchan Parade (Dyer-Bolique)
Your transformation astonishes before my eyes,
For fealty’s hand given, and now dotingly accepted, I cannot conceive that I may truly ever regret it. For how could I know that you are plotting my demise?
With sleight of hand, conniving glances, a rivalry soon reprised.
Such are things, cast as fog against sun, easily forgotten,
I have a gift for thee, my love once misbegotten.
A carnival of captured souls, ready for their demise!
For they once resided amongst the hollows of our domain,
Dishevelled and imploring our consideration and charity,
I parade them now, in front of you, waiting as lambs to be slain.
Raise up your armoured and loaded leg, dispatch with impunity’s bane,
Dispense your ammunition, present your decimation, destroy society.
Become My Phoenix, imbued with the shared wickedness profane!
Scene Three: Dead Alive
Ode to the Living Dead (Valkyrie Kerry)
‘Dyer-Bolique, as dire as you are,
Cursed streets offer something far worse,
Vacant minds, absorbing smoked plants and wine,
Menacing, intolerant curse.’
You heed my meaning, agree with my terms,
Prepare me to fight, in the bleakest night,
Load my limb’s weapon, to crush the dirt worms,
Lash and Winchester to take flight.
To town we travel, after dark rabble,
Dissident ills, unified mind, Packs travel shady, lonely back allies, We circle prey, stalking behind.
Once entrenched in their hole with no way out,
The undead-alive wrestle and shout, No one comes near, caught in their fear, Offering us a safe route.
‘Dyer-Bolique, as dire as you are,
Put the fear of hell in these stiffs,
Vacant souls we must cleanse in fire,
Before they have time to put out their spliffs.’
Putrid Pantomime (Dyer-Bolique)
‘Come one! Come all! Speak to me of other things! Within this alley, kindly don’t dilly dalley, see what Dyer-Bolique Brings!
Notice my coat, observe my hat, pondering on my offerings.
Within my whim, step on in, attend my theatre frightening!’
I turn to my torturous dove, ‘Dispense your love, fools are gathering!
The living undead, through plenty of dread, wondering at my blatherings.
In awe they are, in stupor they seem, rapt in my entertainment and ramblings.
Easily grifted, my introduction gifted, as ring master and captivating King!
Dispatch my will, don’t spare any thrill, make the carnage dazzling!
For in my eye, I shall spy, the demise of the zombified younglings.
Please don’t hurry, I shall enjoy them scurry as searing whips rends limb and sings.
I shall watch, form vantage aloft, a fire escape and savour savagery’s sting!’
Carnival of Ghouls (Valkyrie)
Perplexed by the spectacle frightening,
The dreary masses experience enlightening,
Punishment for lives spent crying, self- entitling, I step forth from the shadows with sharp senses heightening.
‘Roll up, roll up,’ my carnivalesque display to appease,
Your dreadful need for expressionistic debauchery, Moonlit shimmers on leg’s rifle’s savagery, Cowering minions losing their bravery.
‘Come see the man-made, human spectacle,
Form of woman fused with machine so delectable,’ With triumph in gait, so as not to displease, I raise my leg to the art, so collectible.
Huddling in, panic awry,
My errant gaze catches up with your black, refined eye.
One move swift, the first round released, A handful of ghouls join the deceased.
Greying concrete painted with crimson fuel,
Forces mice to run from the hawk,
Showtime for my body’s renewal,
My prey I start to stalk.
Lash of whip strikes, Twitching bodies fall, As if recently interred.
Lash of whip strikes, Tearing flesh from the ghouls, And breaking up the putrid herd.
Culling rife, for you to see,
Another blazing round,
Projectiles and whip, Rocket from me, Foxes to the hound.
Inhuman humanity,
Pouring debris,
Intestines and blood hand in hand.
Inhuman humanity,
Little is left of me,
As my destiny is carved in the sand.
Marauding Macabre (Dyer-Bolique)
The song rings out, a sweet melody of violence laced with the unforgiving butchery.
Steel whistling throughout out the rank alleyway air, shots matching the butchery.
Your strikes pure, my sight obscured, as crimson smog clouds the atmosphere.
For I, the audience of one, applaud the spectacle macabre, revelling in butchery.
As scene and curtain fall, my mind grows complacent at episodic monotony.
I desire a new journey, a fresh course, avant-garde introducing butchery.
Remembrance of days past, seared ever in mind’s eye, as branded upon living skin.
Of a frenzied scream, your demented laugh, lost limbs, once welcoming my butchery.
Time is fleeting as reality rebounds; some have escaped the purposeful culling.
With claw of hand and tearing human dentition, I complete the marauding butchery.
An Ominous Observation (Valkyrie)
Wild beast, rampant and voracious, I observe as you storm through the debris.
Feasting with fang and claw,
Identifying a fatalistic flaw,
A plan hatches for this bird to be set free.
Time imperative, trust regained,
For the strategy to be realised,
I hide the tears for I know with certainty,
That a sorrowful consequence is our mutual demise.
Sleight of hand required,
Horror movies must inspire,
Brainstorming the tropes, Mind filled with hopes, For success to duly transpire.
Inspiration calls, in night’s interim,
To sew together the colourful dead,
Stacked into the van, Another ghastly plan, A mural spread over the forest’s dirt bed.
Compulsion of Flesh, Enslavement of Desire
(Dyer-Bolique)
Night had wrought bloody adventure,
Indulged on enduring sight,
Tangible desires satiated, Intangible impulses, Created.
Additional thought was needed to sate lechery’s rising tides,
A maelstrom’s hand, coldly clenches me,
Accompanied by the Vortices of want,
An inadequate nourishment vexes,
Its promise of unfulfillment, Compounds the need.
What is happening?
When shall it feed?
How to be free?
Lascivious offerings shall soon scream their benefaction,
Delight in form, sweet in taste, the ardour attractive,
New afflictions of flesh ignited,
Your sweet body duly invited, Subservient to my will, You accept my flesh.
No remorse in taste, Our bodies peaking, Climax reunited.
Scene Four: Slasher Slayings
A Notion That Slays (Valkyrie Kerry)
A climax permeated with crimson cognizance,
Welted marks from your teeth exquisitely endured, Our bodies one, sordid notions of pain abound.
My head rests on you in the aftermath,
Romantic notions of the macabre dominate discourse, Suggestions of a well-trodden path.
‘Let us consummate our desires on vacation,
By the lake sits an unofficial campsite,
The lecherous deceitfully attend, sexual elation,
And drinking their spirits to hell in the night.’
I run my hands over bare flesh, as your lips kiss me; Cheek, throat, face and head. My words cease in your amorous stifle, And then I am passionately spread.
As your passion abates,
My thoughts I do relate,
On fuelling your brutal, destructive guile.
‘Techniques are known to be vast,
A plethora of tools used to smite,
Although the methods do not last,
There are plenty more victims in sight.’
Portentous Pickings (Dyer-Bolique)
Eventide’s contrast to the world of day inevitable, A setting as stereotypical as winter’s baneful winds. Woodlands masking the truest menace of death perpetual.
Serenity of the unmasked wild, forestry hiding the eventual.
The current flock, born for the sole purpose of our slaughter.
An abundance of fare; boyfriend, girlfriend, son and daughter.
Enquiries trouble, a conundrum of sinister delight.
Who shall it be? And how will they depart tonight?
Behind door number one, the typical frolicking pair. Out for a lake born tryst, in the lake not even a care. Shall we stealthily accost them as they rise from the depths.
Harpoons to share, between youth’s beating breasts.
Behold, behind door number two, just one cabin down.
Within its sweet depths, the lonely lady, and the camp clown.
A method of disposal begs further scrutiny and greater examination.
Perhaps ensnare and gradually introduce lurid exsanguination.
But these are all frivolities to yourself and, the exhilarated me.
For what truly electrifies, is behind the colourful door number three.
The prim; the proper, self-assured, strong, independent, and astute.
If this were a script? That would be the potential survivor!
How ordinary and simplistically cute!
Veil of night is calling that individual’s name, as Hollywood is so far away.
For reality has arrived in the shape of human suit wearing wolves today.
I recommend securing a handshake, draw in their confidence, make it swell.
And when they are not looking, decapitate with shovel, disembowel, and beat with a trowel.
Cirque de la Lune (Valkyrie)
Dyer-Bolique, your humour astounds me,
Words so bold and yet painfully dry,
Though I am not so deceived,
But I am intrigued,
And longing to make that clown cry.
We wait beneath the canopy of the trees, Morose, hideously masked, noxious.
We wait for the inevitable, mismatched battle, As the clown’s date rejects her potential mate.
Dyer-Bolique, diabolical in his deviant planning, Meticulous in his over-abundance of supplies, Has woken the sleeping dragon.
Bear trap and barbed wire, pulleys abound,
Mechanically minded he guides, ever attentive, Always paying note to their troubled discourse’s climax.
Prim and proper leaves first, nose high in the air, Disgusted by her blind date’s plain appearance, She strides furiously into the trees.
Silent bait, for the clown will eventually follow,
Silent, but must be forever silenced,
The bear trap snaps…
Silence breaks into a raucous, short-lived scream, Silence endures as my lover’s blade steals her head, Send in the clowns, he comes, unable to accept reality.
Phone’s light guiding, he sees her, behind a stump, Her head stands tall on a branch, summoning the fool, Hurriedly he runs, trips, wire tightens about his ankle.
There the pendulum swings, hanging inverted, Shocked as I approach, such a sight for sore eyes, Bionic woman, he pleads for assistance, cries for help.
I push his form as it hangs by one leg, it swings again, Implores and fights, I tilt my head nonchalantly, Thrilled, impassive, detached, I flay with lash.
Cleaves clothes from flesh, and flesh from bone,
Another swift movement gnaws another welt, As my Urumi rises for a third strike,
Dyer-Bolique grabs and clasps my wrist tight.
Into my hand the hilt is placed, machete ready, sharp, Taking a step back, and drawing my strength, And drive the blade down vertically.
One half of the clown slithers down,
Better a quick death by blade,
Or harpoon, shovel, or garden spade, Than neglectfully left to drown.
Propelled (Dyer-Bolique)
Ignorance ever carelessly embraced,
Always in bare reckless abandonment.
It shall find its truest reward, As shroud of night blackens the lake.
A whimsical pair condemned on pre-marital
frivolities,
My choice, my solemn judgement. The boardwalk, my red carpet, Transporting me to their mistake.
A powerboat my chariot,
Begging my destructive punishment.
A turn of key roars my carriage to life,
Soon churning darkened liquid for its own sake.
Rolling waves disguise my approach, But soon I see their eyes’ astonishment. A small cry and jutting bump, Ending in red tide’s wake.
The Final Girl (Valkyrie)
Ultimate survivor in wait,
Her life force comes from deep within, Triggered when threatened, hearing cries, She develops a thicker skin.
Ultimate survivor in wait,
Entombed in cabin, observing,
Her quick brain constantly working,
Never taking the offered bait,
Innocence, a repellent trait,
Detached from her peers without sin,
Counting the deaths as they roll in,
Standing strong, everyone dies, Espying Dyer-Bolique’s lies,
And plotting to save her own skin.
Her life force comes from deepest fate,
To suffer whatever we bring,
But I am skilled at surviving,
Pitied for my mechanic gate,
She assumes he forced me to date,
Night blinded from my bleak killing,
She offers some kind assisting,
To save me from master of flies, A master I cannot despise, She follows my painful limping.
Triggered when threatened by night’s fate,
I suggest until dawn, hiding,
She acquiesces, abiding,
Breathing heavy, fear, I relate,
Trusting me, a trait too innate,
Closing her eyes, quick slumbering,
Resting her head, now lumbering,
In the garden shed we disguise, I carefully plan her demise, Secateurs ready for cleaving.
Ultimate survivor in wait,
I develop a thicker skin,
A strange noise draws her from hiding,
Alone, confused, mind in a state,
She marches heedlessly to fate, Behind her I stride, lumbering,
Secateurs assist bleak killing,
From back of neck comes the surprise, Three poor clips, and Final Girl dies, Painful demise, encumbering.
Ardeat (Dyer-Bolique)
Fuelled,
Bodies supplied,
Hade’s flame salutes, Rising applause of deaths tithe, Burning.
Bodies,
Consumed flesh
Fodder for our blaze, Feeding the ravenous inferno, Consumed.
Silent,
My offering,
Departed from this world, Conflagrations feast gratefully given Devoured.
The Harbinger (Valkyrie Kerry)
Watching,
Harbinger drinks,
Muttering of murder, Menacing ingenuity, Witness.
Watching,
The old drunk waits,
Preparing to confess, Speaking of our dark transgressions, Danger.
Clearing,
Dyer-Bolique,
Collects the dead bodies,
Remains for forest fire’s hearth, Careful.
Hiding,
Prophet of doom,
Gathering his tales, Testimony to be laid bare, Naked.
Watching,
Harbinger drinks,
Woeful words of their doom, Fire lights high, smoke in the sky, Danger.
Watching,
I see him lurk,
Warn you beloved man, Together we hatch a new plan, Careful.
Clearing,
You speak aloud,
Garner his attention, Draw his fears and watch the panic, Watching.
Waiting,
Wire remains,
Easily cut, prepared,
Barbed wire stretched in hand, I sneak, Behind.
Behind,
Wire round neck,
He struggles and cries out,
Slashing and tightening his throat, Choking.
Bleeding,
Gurgling gore,
Spilling to the wood’s floor, A new ember for the pyre, Burning.
Infernum (Dyer-Bolique)
Added,
Grotesque herald,
His invading entity, Trespassed on my vocation, Burning.
Dancing,
Flames amber,
Joy at donations, Charity in bodily form, Blazing.
Blazing,
Skin crackling,
Fingers as candelabra, Putrid flesh-soaked alcohol, Fitting.
Scene Five: Lycanthrope for a Dream
L’art Cullinaire (Valkyrie Kerry)
Crimson candles glow, meaty cutlets served, Romanticised date, I remember you, First desirous date, feigning fear reserved. ‘What is this sweet meat?’ More than I deserved, Passions rekindled, guilt for doubting you, Crimson candles glow, meaty cutlets served.
Evil smirk spreads, ‘Your arm I had preserved!’ Guilt abates, once again your colours true,
First desirous date, feigning fear reserved.
‘Raising two wolves, their hunger I observed, And fed them meat cutlets as one must do,’ Crimson candles glow, meaty cutlets served.
I hide my horror, submission subserved, Taking each mouthful, I carefully chew, First desirous date, feigning fear reserved.
My resolve steady, plan in place deserved,
‘Werewolves made great horror beasts too, that slew!’ Crimson candles glow, meaty cutlets served, First desirous date, feigning fear reserved.
Carnivorous Carnival (Dyer-Bolique)
Hope plays the role contrite, L’art Cullinaire served on despair,
‘You remember your place, my hold ever renewed! For what is flavour if loyalty, if yours is insipid
impaired?’
You bask on pleasantries, humouring my air,
Callously agreeable, contented, and shrewd, Hope plays the role contrite, L’art Cullinaire served on despair.
As doe eyes adore, awaiting my approval’s care,
‘A pleasant idea,’ a mock and impugn,
‘For what is flavour if loyalty, if yours is insipid impaired?’
‘My canines are trained, versed in savagery’s prayer,
But fear not my heart, you they will not consume!’ Hope plays the role contrite, L’art Cullinaire served on despair.
You dance and connive, I see you in my vacant stare,
Within my gaze, darkly dreaming visions accrue, ‘For what is flavour if loyalty, if yours is insipid impaired?’
I have ensnared you once, for I am the fox to your hare,
‘Tonight, we hunt, for flesh’s atonement is due!’ Hope plays the role contrite, L’art Cullinaire served on despair,
‘For what is flavour if loyalty, if yours is insipid impaired?’
Valkyrie’s Ballade (Valkyrie)
‘Master, your distrust is misplaced,
For you are the whole world to me, Turning teacher to your student, A mind shrewd and gallant to see.
Safe with you I lay, submissive,
Your feisty weapon, thanks to thee.’ My plan sadly remains, our end, But you are the whole world to me.
‘Now to these wolves, permit my speech, At midnight bars cease to serve, see? Hairy dregs wander marauding,
Waiting for the wolves to roam free.
Drunks howl at the moon, unhindered,
Set their undeserving soul’s free.’ Soon we fall sadly together, But you are the whole world to me.
‘Empty sheds sit behind the bar,
Deprived wolves in the pig pit free, A drunk man is easily led, Prospecting a woman like me. Sensual and bizarre to see,
Falling for a woman like me.’ I have ordered our doom’s sweet drug.
But you are the whole world to me.
Escaping to capture wolf’s bane,
Pain of the nightmare soon to come, Your insanity spirals free,
But you are the whole world to me.
The Pit and Long Boar (Dyer-Bolique)
Our plan, born of true heinous,
Oh, my canine friends of nourishment deprived. Yet tonight they feast on standing pig, Such pleasant fare to absorb.
Within a tavern’s hospitality,
Hogs adore to imbibe,
Pre-marinated and duly prepped,
Oh, my canine friends of nourishment deprived.
Ambiance imperative to set the mood,
A ramshackle hovel dutifully disguised,
A table set with finery, nothing crude,
Oh, my canine friends of nourishment deprived.
Docile and ready they await their company,
Savouring the smell of the meal to arrive, For on temptation’s arm, he will be led,
Oh, my canine friends of nourishment deprived.
Master and pet, we must be prepared,
The hour draws sundry and nigh, Soon the punters will traverse a yonder, Day’s turmoil and beverage deprived.
Man’s best friend finds true gallery,
In this repurposed livery, improvised,
As such we wait, for customers true fate,
And as always…
Oh, my canine friends of nourishment deprived.
GIGANtic Hog Ensnared (Valkyrie)
Staggering from the roadhouse, howling liquor at the moon,
Strategically well-dressed, I smile at the great goon.
Weeknight when most have more sense, sly words distract. Promises,
Soft lullaby on the breeze, offering more later on, Holding his gaze as they leave, punters go home, skirmishes.
His beard ruffles to his chest, as dirty claws scratch at head,
And we are alone tonight, under moonlight’s gleam, red.
Taking his giant, rough paw, I lead him to the old farm,
Assenting ego follows, for what woman can do harm?
Through mire we slowly trudge, we cannot arrive too soon,
Staggering from the roadhouse, howling liquor at the moon.
His beard ruffles to his chest, as dirty claws scratch at head,
Unbalanced but desperate, to follow a strange being, Desirous though most flaccid, unlikely worthy in bed.
Inside barn doors my world resides, hungry wolves baying for blood,
Staggering in the farmhouse, howling wolves baying for blood.
Likened to Lycan (Dyer-Bolique)
Abundance of flesh, teetering on a stuporous step,
Carried dutifully, and on a drunkard’s resolve, Resigning himself, a true wretch of the unkept, Your body not to be touched or involved!
Sacrificial, our desirous fool will endure my scorn,
I glare on, anticipating my friends to intercept, Realisation dawns, as his forearm is torn, Tattered flesh screaming with crimson effect!
Restless meat, dragged to this vestibule of violence’s floor,
Fangs dispense their intended and evolutionary design,
Shielding his face, with haemorrhaging appendage, is this disgusting boar,
His pathetic squawking cut short and rendered benign!
The offering’s complexion changing, as mandible is ripped from head,
I match his bleating, as I find my voice enduring a lycanthropic illusion,
A cry soon answered, as you, my Valkyrie advance, howling with a Banshee’s dread,
Observing the feast, content in our current spree, gracious of our evolution!
Her eyes hypnotic,
My own absorbing a truth, Future dystopic.
Scene Six: Finale Fatale
Death’s Nuptials (Valkyrie)
Exhausted, fatigued, and ready to die,
Penchants come at cost, like unholy love,
My plan’s fruition accompanies sigh,
Sad melancholy weighted from above, Time plunders forward, death’s marriage is nigh, Mind altering toxins hidden in my glove.
Drugs and suggestions, secret in the glove,
Broken heart to part, parting us to die,
Finality grim, below and above,
‘There is no other way,’ forlorn I sigh, Imprisoned monster to the man I love, I try to reason a way, it is nigh.
Death’s reaper awaits, our wedding is nigh,
I remove noxious potions from my glove,
Tears rolling, I cannot bear watch him die,
He who rules with iron fist high above, ‘Body broken as my mind,’ I do sigh, Entangled in this insanity, love.
I sought his dark love, he sought my dark love,
From that moment impending death was nigh,
But fate forced my hand, wielding spiteful glove,
Our tapestry sewn, so many did die, And if you believe, they went up above, Underworld awaits, Anubis’ deep sigh.
Original plan gone awry, I sigh,
Take my own life after taking my love,
I choose a sicker route where we both die,
Mix modification, deep in my glove, Instigating a high, the end is nigh, But we shall be soaring high up above.
Challenging minds refined from the above,
Together we fly, free spirits, I sigh,
Bonded by an immutable, deep love,
I groom myself for him, the moment nigh, Sliding a new mix deep within my glove, His stash compote, my preparation, die.
Sweet dining to die, drops pour from above, Cannibalised love, my sorrowful sigh, Imminently nigh, it pours from my glove.
Unceremonious Consumption (Dyer-Bolique)
Grace escapes my life this burgeoning night.
Drugs coax me to door of the dying.
I care little of this conclusive plight.
Our souls are annexed, mortality crying.
Resistance of desire not within our might.
A bitten tongue commences shared dining.
Dreamlike wraiths, absorbed in the dining.
Looking, feasting, blackened blood of night.
Joyous in jilt, imbibing the crying.
Arousal strikes hard, ignorance of plight.
Rapturous, we consummate the dying.
Bodies as one, exuding lust’s might.
Dominance, retreats against passion’s might.
Ocular delight, next course of dining.
Penetrative elation cries this night.
Pain lost, I sup on her blood, and crying.
We know how this ends, enduring the plight.
Union continues hence, no heed on dying.
Death strikes his toll, in tune to the dying. His solemn bell rings, purposive in might.
Skin, swift the entrée of fervours dining.
Heavenly flesh, savoury gift of the night.
Blissful in tears, garnished of the crying.
Our hands peeling further, aching nails plight.
Faux limbs discarded, aide-memoir of plight.
Inedible in passions pure dying.
I devour her essence this very night, My skinned nose, entremets of her dining.
She shears off my face, fangs working might.
Sweet, mutual pain, dressed by the crying.
Pain flows, red tears, blending the crying,
Hungers soft kiss, preceding loves last plight,
Time draws its veil, our void of the dying,
Vastness of void, advances against our might,
Bodies flayed, craven within our dining, Luxuriously devoured our night.
This night, we are one in the crying, The dying flies out, carriage of the plight, Yielding of might, tenacious in the dining.
Our bodies consume one another,
Our souls consume one another,
Until nothing remains but our story’s offal.
Encore
Carnage's Conclusion
Reports are coming in, yarns of a tale most obscene, Of romance pushed to edge of reason, ferociously extreme.
Authority’s reports state, ‘perplexing,’ of no true reflection,
A nightmarish bond driven by blood-lust supreme.
As filters and speculation devastate the nation, Major crime units are vexed and sickened at the scene.
Love driven mad, a pair of souls forming a monstrous band,
A spree of death, flowered with gory mis-en-scene.
Caution is the story, of Dyer-Bolique’s glory,
And Valkyrie’s staging of theatrical, macabre themes.
Woe is their ending, victims’ families lamenting,
A plot in infamy, destined to never be redeemed.
The curtains close…
