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 agony-induced 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.
YOU ARE READING
The Thorn and His Rose: An Immortalis Chapbook
HorrorA theatrical, visceral horror tale. Artistically presented, methodically planned, and cruelly realized. Lovers, serial killers, turning their macabre passion into an artform, but as their depravities grow, so too does their respective paranoias. As...
