ah   crying guitar weeping violin melancholy viola and cello

                                                                                                              Macabre                  

setting the tone                                                                                                                

percolating his inherent violence                                                                                       

widening the bare offset that struggled to belay  heel  his derangement and keep his                        irrationale at bay

they cast odorous smoke and irritating ash in his face   smarting his eyes  insulting his nostrils                                                                                                                     

provoking him

the hardwood he clutched grew more dense   it smelled of raw blood and senselessness                             

he committed a bludgeoning

                                             freeing             

happily dystopian                                                                                                                             

happily disconnected

                                   he left the truncheon beside the cooling body and before leaving he 

casually admired the traces  splashes  and flung drippings 

                                           he admired the pooling blood  brittle teeth  bone and brainbits

had he been utterly devoid of pity he would have taken their hands                                                                                                          

                                                       which was all there was left for the next of kin for an ID                                                                                                                     

though recently tats helped tell their tale

during quiet nights                                                                                                                       

he imagined if he could shake the music  if he could bring himself to pierce his eardrums

maybe the senselessness might expire

but he couldnt be sure

his brain was spinning record sides separate of him

Obviously the separateness vied for his attention                                                                 

                                                                                he could hear a machine work his 

cloth  -  stitching him together   hear the clatter of a zipper  -  drawing him together  -  or 

coming undone

its Undone or Done was baked into his cake

from the inside he couldnt use a toothpick to test it

and every murder performed   ah   informed his knowing

                                                                                           informed him that if he had 

been found out earlier and killed   -   Take No Prisoners   -   his marbling or perfection 

would never have been

               some Wolves grew old                                            

and danced alone in the dark under an ochre moon or wildly in the eviserating yellow 

glazed sunlight 

                                                                                           Enormously happy they were

Never Discovered

1754,  Moanday,  13  1. 14