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Old March 24th, 2005, 12:06 AM  
Vampire Malthas
Junior Member
Join Date: March 8, 2005
Default Deborah and I = Poe + Rilke x 1,000,000

A collaborative epic poem by
Vampire Malthas (Gryphon Myers)
and Deborah Werewolf (Chris Lem)

G = written by me
C = written by Chris

There are a couple stage directions in there, as we were considering turning this into some sort of theatrical production.

C: The act of loss is a puddle, murky, opaque, and deep despite its meek and shallow illusions.

G: A cage. A net to catch the smaller fishes.

C: Their atomic hearts bombs inside the laterally correct bodies, bulging eyes and bleeding brains. His brain might bleeds too. (The man sits up, wiping his eyes.)

G: He thinks. In the shady complex of his dream life, things twist themselves into his greatest fears. The lesser demons smile; embracing his frail skeleton, their claws dirty with the ancient mud.

C: Stagnant dreams scented of the ballerina decay, their once graceful and decadent skirts black with pestilence, and their bandaged faces once savory and picturesque in the fading dew of the gray, lifeless sunrise.

G: Yet the scarred tapestry of his history holds no meaning in this barren world: a landscape of two walls, beginning to mold with the coming winter. The stench prompts a natural response. He is sick.

C: Conflict manifold the delusions of yesterday’s pastries. Conflict, is this:

G: Barring of the meager child, we bound him up in chains and locks,
C: With Sudafed lips I’ll flap profound I’ll crush it with incessant talks,
G: With culling dolls and stygian fields, we’ll bring the skies to scrape our skulls,
C: Remember us without curtail and gladly drain your mind of mocks,

G: Triple six menageries; unearth the brother of the sands,
C: Allow the fingers of the horse caress unto his music hands,
G: I cut into this weathered flesh; I feel the blood return to dirt,
C: It’s painful to the first extent but clay and sand are soils of hurt,

C: Fear of fear splits my mind as the blinding scream debases pride,
G: I wrest him from the darkest hour, bring him to the whipping post,
C: My waking dreams recur unmoved the failing of his stillborn boast,
G: Unto this deed I leash myself, a demon through which I will hide.

C: Swallowing defeat devoid of fate drains my eyes and bends my heart,
C: Without to stand amongst the none, sipping shame with bowl and spoon,
G: My waking lies absolve the trust and coax from me the deadly art,
G: Towards malady my mind removes me, pitting me against the moon.

C: The spiteful hour has come at last to break my thoughts and drink the walls,
G: Amidst the glare of morning sun, I throw myself propane insults
C: A day in the life of inebriation lives the days of dead reflections,
G: An epitaph to the lesser monarchs marks the thoughts of unborn children.

C: And we’ve already died in the realities of falling raindrops and they trickle to the ground, running in rivulets and gutters into the sewers of rats in which they will live only to decay. We’ve already lost the battle of wits and words and our bowed heads are plexi-glass statues in the plastic gardens that illuminate in the lights of dead Christmas trees. We’ve already forgotten the faith in solitude and sociality.

G: Too many words. Too many thoughts. He scars the pages of history; a man removed to captivity, to all defining purposes an animal. Breath escapes lazily; bloodshot pearls scan the foggy plaster window. In complacency he retells the telling of a fictional life, and with arms bound tight he does not see the man in white escape silently though the iron door behind him.

C: And to ignore the man behind the curtain is a concept that should undoubtedly melt before common sense. The breath is now so thick that the windows begin to crack, his grey eyes dilating in the loving embrace of delirium. Grey is the color of glory after it was blue, black is the color of excitement after it was green, white is the color of malice after it was red. In the recurrences of childhood stories and the final moments of an old man’s lullabies the reflections rise like the sun illuminates the great halls in the morning before it casts them in shadows during noon. He’ll never forget that betrayal, that fear, that failure, that forgetfulness.

G: An arcane death, a smile and laughter unbroken by the stillness of a lamenting heart. Custody envelops the still shell, as the men in white prepare him for the events to come. The morning sun warms the loose blanket as he is carried off to meet his fate with a handful of wishes and a mouthful of prayers.

Let me desecrate you.
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