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.
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...
