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Array
(
[sid] => 64009
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => A Killing Joke
[time] => 2004-09-16 19:17:43
[hometext] => We had to choose an article and write a poem from it in Creative Writing, this is the article I wrote it from.. it's sad to think this is all true and I know it's long, but I got lost in it when I read the article.
[bodytext] => Discarded the passe plastic surfboard as I donned the pale vampiric glaze. I picked up TOOL's latest CD, the sound encased my thoughts. Boys, girls, it didn't matter... as long as I could study the serial killer. But things... well things don't always turn out how they're planned. Time's gone by as in the arms of a lover and THAT day? It was yesterday to me. Whenever the visions of that innocent's end emerges... I f a l l in... Damien, my gothic ideal, planned a joke... I call it a 'Killing Joke' because jokes sank to the ocean floor as if tied with a weight of death. The dirt is leaves upon the path in Autumn, as the plastic grave yawns open; just thirteen inches deep. We play Kelly's guide, tour 'Ghost Town,' stealthily approach the center of the joke: the grave. ...oh Kelly stay with me... ...I'm not so frozen as you think... She turns her back and in my mind I see me abandon her as a wilting rose its petals. The images crack, shatter as broken glass with the bang of a gun. ...he never planned a joke... The clammy cold crawls down my spine, shivers overtake. ...sweet Kelly... She twitches on the ground like an erratic heartbeat. Words invade my prayed for nightmare, my evil ideals. "My finger slipped..." *Twitch, twitch.* "I can't shoot her again..." A blood red pillow forms to cushion her head. *Twitch...twitch.* I long for a big red STOP sign to halt her movement. I remember the feel of cold steel in my hand. ...I shot you Kelly dear... I wanted to turn the last page of her book of misery; because all she was now was a horse with a broken leg. Then the dirt upon the path hid my Kelly, hid her as a child who crawls beneath the covers at every sound. It created a wall between her and all horrors. A rotten orange couch let her rest in shade. I lost her in thirteen inches. The following weeks seem different, they flick in and out, on and off, like a TV with poor reception. My memory's vision is lost in a lake of fog, blurred and misty as a drunk's and missing parts like a book with pages ripped and torn. ... Hey Kelly babe let's go hang out... left with no response. Pain like acidic spotted showers burns through my walled up heart. I clutched her photo front row as I cried. I return to Ghost Town, I had to try all the erasers, rewinds, reverses and resets to return what it was. Let me say what I see... ...I see purple lavendar stones spelling K.E.L.L.Y.; and our bottle of Alize upon a white cross, all that's left pure. And pencils stabbed through papers spelling K.E.L.L.Y. stabbed into the ground. A silk rose upon a teddy bear and a red wand by pink candles. It was innocent and right. But just as we defiled Kelly so do rags, foam, and a used condom defile her memory... I pressed all the buttons, tried every gear, but all that's left is rotting flesh, decaying as our memories. As silent as a prisoner pressing volume against a taped over mouth, until I sat in that room, ...life's not like the movies... My words were an overflowing river crashing through a dam. I lost her in thirteen inches and now there's no reset button. ...I'll never forget you Kelly. Wherever I go now, you'll be there with me... [comments] => 2 [counter] => 186 [topic] => 32 [informant] => waos [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => SadPoetry )
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