Fragments, just fragments

There will come a moment
you find yourself drift in an ocean of pain,
ebbs of agony and floods of fire,
submerging your senses, suffocating all hope. 

You will drown in shades of crimson...

All of a sudden your blood is just blood,
and no one cares to embalm your wounds,
so if you still cling to the illusion that your life is a song,
then you will learn that this song is fading. 

Poetry might help you survive,
but it won't keep you from dying....

(-F.D., 2019)

(A status, somewhen in Spring 2019)

HANNIBAL: We are all much closer to the brink of destruction than we have allowed ourselves to believe. Right beneath the skin is a hidden, carefully nurtured darkness, that waits for permission.

FRANCIS: Needles stirred up my darkness, humming allowance to show up.

HANNIBAL: All hail. 

FRANCIS: Are yours and mine the same?

HANNIBAL: Let us open the skin and find out.

FRANCIS: That's a very intimate gesture, you know.

HANNIBAL: I am all too aware of what I'm suggesting.

FRANCIS: Maybe you'll find more than my darkness. The shimmering scales of silvery secrets. My passion and fire. My true self. Many things are close to the surface, while others...
I do not doubt you, Hannibal. Neither your suggestions, nor your words. Nor your deeds. I'm just not sure if you really want ME under your skin.

"The beast, which you saw, once was, now is not, and yet will come up out of the Abyss and go to its destruction. The inhabitants of the earth whose names have not been written in the book of life from the creation of the world will be astonished when they see the beast, because it once was, now is not, and yet will come." (Revelation 17:8)

I am confused for I slip from my own grip, I dissolve and ooze through the veil, and I disappear into darkness without a sound. I will be the one who devours the sun, and the woman, bare of its warmth, will cry in pain, and her unborn son will bow to me in awe.
And I will reign for 30 days, and I will call my brothers from the sea to gather together at Harmagedon. And near Jerusalem we will fight God's army...

But why? And why me? I'm only human and I need to be loved.

(Please, call me insane! Please call me insane...)

Chained to a rock he waits for the thunder of giant wings, bringing back endless pain. He, a titan, stole the fire from the Gods to bring it to his mortal beloveds, so he, amongst others, should understand... that my human light is stolen, and sleepless I lay in darkness, listening to every possible sound. But all I hear is thunder...

On the doorstep to Summer, in the waning of Buck Moon, a thunderstorm gushed up, waking me in the middle of night, so I get up to watch the bolts ripping the sky.
I should not think of your skin now, hot and glistening with sweat. I should not hear your moans in the drumming of the rain.
Thunder vibrates through the veins of the house. Storm rattles the shutters.
But that's nothing compared to the storm in my head.

Life is not about fighting.
Life is not about killing.
Life is inhaling the beauty of existence
and finding words for the fragrance of moonlight.

(~F.D., August 2019)

You ask who I am, as if I would know.
Me, the one shattered to a million of pieces,
broken and regained and broken again.
I think I'm me. Or maybe I'm you.
Angel to some, and demon to others.

(Sept. 2019)

 

Sometimes less is more.
Sometimes enough is already too much.  

Harelip! Monster! Cunt face!
You bring nothing but bad luck.
Blame it on the filthy beast!

Shame on you, Francis!

I never counted how often I had to hear this, and I felt a lot of things between aggression and deepest sadness, but I never felt ashamed of my disfigurement.
I knew I wasn't to blame for being born with a genetic defect.  

These painful stations of my youth. Shards of recollection joining together to a puzzle of incomprehension and despair. A shattered mirror, catching the moonlight, reflecting my eyes. They are bluer than the Summer sky. I'm young and old. And crippled.  

But now I am to blame. At least on more than 40 dead people.
Men, women, children. Shame on me.  

I'm still not ashamed.







You have to be calm, completely calm, not a single emotion dazing your mind: no rage, no fear, no excitement. Fully awake you walk through a dream, and you hear everything, the breath and heartbeat of the sleeping house. You know it by heart, you know where to find them. You know what to do. You go upstairs, your gun at the ready, the silencer adjusted.

Sometimes I heard music, deep inside.
Later, when I bathed in blood and moonlight.

(Nov. 2022)




I miss you.
Your hands, clawing, kneading, demanding my skin.
Your voice, gasping my name and calling me "bastard".
Your body, wrapped around me, conjoined to mine,
and an entire world not able to part us.
Your lips and your tongue and your deep humid kisses.
Your heat in the cold of the full-moon night.
Your intention to kill me by riding me to the very end.

I miss you, Will.


November 2022




~*Late night musing:

1. I never cared about Alphas, till Hannibal's teeth ripped the skin of my neck.

2. You have to take risks to get what you desire.

3. Being fvcked is always (a bit) painful, even if you want it.


December 2022



 

(Still December 2022)








It's not power I felt. No remorse, either.
I pulled the trigger and I switched off lives: all thoughts, all hopes, all dreams. Entire futures. I extinguished them in a single moment.
I left myself in empty houses, with silent echoes and the sweet perfume of escaping souls, re-arranging corpses like photographs from times lost past.







A kiss,
an embrace,
an alibi,
or a tender hand,
coating your wounds,
and holding your hair back
when you puke your guts out.

Love knows exactly what you need.
(Dec. 22)




~*~
[January 2023]


Day is loud and merciless,
while night is full of whispers.

Confessions and lies are done better at night.