A new posting of an old poem

This is the darkest poem I ever wrote.

Untitled

Upon the ground there lay a mask

In the midst of a pool of crimson blood.

The mask was of a human face made of inch-thick flesh

But possessed of the brittleness of china.

A jagged bolt of lightning piece of mask was broken away,

Cutting across the forehead of that inanimate face.

Gently picking up the damaged, blood-soaked visage with hands all a-tremble,

I recognised the countenance as my own.

Along the path I travelled, passing row upon row of faceless human shells

Suffering the scars of tortures too hideous and unknowable

For the human mind to comprehend in its infinite fragility.

As each body appeared so the brutality inflicted on it became worse,

Each tortured and desecrated soul the inheritor of Mary Kelly’s legacy,

The path strewn with the offal torn from the eviscerated human shells.

Tattered flesh adorned the once-human husks with the jutting ivory of shattered ribs torn from the chests of the dead,

The marrow sucked from its ivory sheath by noxious smelling creatures that feed upon the carrion-fields.

I found a row of newly-erected cruciform posts upon which were the struggling human forms of newly-picked victims

Surrounded by the white-hot flames of Hell’s own furnaces.

I raised my surgeon’s knife and deftly cut away the now familiar visage of my victim, tossing it on the ground

Before disembowelling each lifeless piece of meat with expertly tutored hands.

As darkness closed around me, my volcanic rage boils over

And my bloodlust becomes too much for me to keep inside.

I continue to butcher my victims despite the fact that’s plain to see

That each and every victim’s face is identical to mine.

© Myles Cook, 2007

Painful memories

Have you ever had one of those moments when a long-lost memory seems to jump out at you like a mugger in an alley at midnight?  Well, that's what happened to me last night.  The memory seemed to slip silently through the cracks in the defences of my subconscious and momentarily overpower my conscious mind before it was aware of what was happening.  I've been trying to write a short story called "The Door" over the past couple of days but this memory has pushed out all thoughts of the story so I relate the memory here in the hope that I will be able to recommence my writing.

I suppose that, if you believe that certain events can be said to define who you are as a person, this is one such moment.  It was a Friday evening in 1986 or 1987 and my parents, brother and I had gone to Rush Green Hospital to visit my Grandma.  She'd had a stroke on the Wednesday morning and was rushed to hospital that day; however, being an NHS hospital, they did nothing to help her and by the Friday evening we were told that her chances of surviving the weekend were very slim.  Mum was understandably upset, it was her mother after all, and Dad was upset too, although it hardly showed.

As the four of us returned to my brother's car, my brother kept on saying that Grandma would recover despite the doctor's prognosis.  I, on the other hand, tried to remain as realistic as possible and, whilst remaining as hopeful and as emotionless as possible under the circumstances, tried to prepare my family for the worst.  My brother didn't see the wisdom in my attitude and drove us home like a maniac, narrowly missing the opportunity of wrapping around a lamppost or two.

After we arrived home, my parents and brother went to their flat whilst I went alone to Grandma's flat across the road where I had been living since exam time at school because Grandma felt better knowing someone else was in the flat with her at night-time.  I went into the living room and sat on the floor after taking the phone off the hook before bursting into tears.  I was alone and inconsolable for over an hour.  No one even bothered to see if I was all right or how I was coping with the news but in front of my family I put on an act, a mask of strength so they had someone strong to turn to.  I, on the other hand, had no one to turn to.

All of this came flooding into my mind last night and it was like reliving the whole thing again.  What happened that night defined what I was to become - a man who puts on a front in public to protect those around me while, in private, falling to pieces and so totally alone that I can barely cope with everyday life.

All I can hope is that my failing memory erases that night from my mind so I can't be hurt by the memory again.  Unfortunately, I know only too well that the psychic mugger will always be out there in the dark, waiting to pounce.