In humble Illionois,
A beaten boy becomes a fiend,
A gift from a sire,
I wish I could yearn for the best,
But alas it did not end well,
Thirty three innocent souls,
Taken too soon,
By a portly smiling man,
Bespite the theatrics and face paint,
Garottes are not magic tricks,
A crawlspace is no place for a party,
And quicklime isn’t punch,
Please my friends,
Behind even a clowns grin,
A demon can hide.
Why be afraid of that clown?
The one in that alleyway,
He may be a touch unhinged,
But he just wants you to laugh,
Cackle until you double over,
Don’t you love his gaudy costume?
Black and emerald with bloody accents,
It’s just paint,
Arterial red they call it,
What of his face?
Pale as a corpse,
And a bulbous nose from another,
Oh and that fabulous painted grin,
Don’t you like his hijinks?
A fake flower that sprays vinegar,
See how he juggles grenades,
Dancing gayly on those gravestones,
He’s a modern day jester,
You don’t have to fear,
No need to quake in your britches,
He just wants to see you smile,
But parlour trick or razor.
I’m a villain,
One of many,
You probably wouldn’t have heard of me,
I’m not the Joker or Magneto,
I’m something of a Z-lister,
You won’t see any special issues of me,
My supervillain outfit is ragged and gaudy,
Inspiring more guffawing than fear,
My lair little more than a grimy motel room,
No plans for world domination,
Just trying to subsist,
Stealing for bullets and breadcrumbs,
I’m bad purely through necessity,
No super strength or flight,
No minions,
No real threat,
My nemesis is no Superman,
It’s the next weeks rent.
Part of the same ‘universe’ as “Blackguard“.
Under these foreboding clouds,
And under ravens vigil,
Dark deeds are to be done,
The war is over,
And now retribution must be rendered,
So the Headsman is called,
And his companion of steel thirst,
A silent and bulky man,
In a sullen hood that emulates night,
Arriving to tight-lipped spectators,
The damned takes his mark,
The labrys is held aloft,
The bystanders’ awe grows to crescendo,
Eons seem to pass,
But the edge does fall,
A tirade of stories ended with a grim whack,
A smirk almost audible under the hood,
But before the day is done,
Many more heads shall roll,
Of that all can be certain.
The web is a hunting ground like any other,
And has its apex predators,
Unfeeling Cossacks on website steppes,
Master phishermen,
Duplicitous wizards of code,
In command of invisible monsters,
Hordes of bytes and virtual dragons,
Digital chimeras and curses of malware,
Under pixel brush and basement canopy,
Stalkers unaffected by the suns light,
You won’t see them coming,
They covet everything you have,
And still more that you don’t,
Scavenging every gory scrap of finance,
But if you’re in need of a quick buck,
Then they know a Nigerian Prince.
In this cerebral prison cell,
I often languish in rueful silence,
Sentenced to the darkness,
For the crime of chronic heartbeats,
And I’m not alone,
There is another thing in here,
And at times I’m afraid of this cellmate,
This accomplice of grey matter,
It shares this concrete box,
For the crimes it puts to paper,
Carving trials and tribulations,
Armageddons and colossi,
With its ink-stained shank,
Manuscripts hidden in the mattress,
Wielding my hands as its own,
Equal parts artist and offensive weapon.
From the poppy,
To a brown dose of liquid,
To the tongue in distress,
In agony,
Prescribed from the cabinet of a backstreet quack,
To a tincture of proto-morphine,
To a mind in need of rest,
Of sleep,
From a stolen concoction of opium,
To the hidden stash of liquor and heroin,
To the den of an addict poisoned,
Passed away.
Walking these grey streets,
I brush a palm across brickwork,
There’s no pulse,
Behind this mask and under this hood,
These ocean eyes see no golden world,
No land of art,
It’s a blank canvas,
Concrete parchment oft marked by others,
Spray-can Picasso’s and urban scribes,
Little artists throwing nebulae upon bare skin,
Underpasses waiting for criminal blankets,
A graffiti louvre,
I want to join their rogues gallery,
Be a Banksy vigilante,
I want to share my kaleidoscopic hieroglyphs,
Contribute to this alleyway zeitgeist,
To bring art to a mundane city,
Spray paint resuscitation,
Damn the droll powers that be,
Those stifling janitors,
Bucket and water tyrants.
Evil can rest behind a smiling face,
An amicable face,
Even a handsome face,
Charisma is the tool of a monster,
Just as a blade or garotte,
Yet more savage,
More cutting,
That was Ted,
Too many souls taken in by a friendly smirk,
A mask hiding thoughts of violation and murder,
Sugared words upon a serpents tongue,
Caught too late,
Highlighting the fell reality,
That fiends hide in plain sight,
Psychopathy cloaked in friendship,
That was Ted.
WorldofHarley 