Show Posts
1426
Fan Creations / Re: Rythm and Groove - Artwork, Poetry and Prose of Nick Z. Rythm
« on: December 11, 2009, 01:59:38 AM »
This here is just a one-shot poem/short story about a new character idea I made up. I may write more about him, if anybody enjoys it.
(click to show/hide)
The lighter clicks
The little flame springs to life
In the moonlit shadows of the midnight streets
The dim glow shimmers nonchalantly
No breeze to blow it
The teeth bite down on the cigarette
The tip, with the little flame
Dancing around it eagerly
Turns a bright red colour
A deep breath; but no lungs to inhale
A thin ream of smoke trails from the burning tip
Melancholically floating into the air
And whisping away into the ether
A deep sigh; but no lungs to exhale
"You crazy little fuckers."
A hand, bony and white
No flesh and blood, just white bone
Flexes its fingers in agitation; waiting
Slowly, it slides down to the hip
Thumb and forefinger bend at the joint
The fingers rattle against the metal body
In the holster, the gun waits patiently
It can feel the tension in the air, and it's hungry
Kill the infidels; burn the heathens!
Kill, kill! Maim, maim!
The gun cries in a bloodied frenzy
Eviscerate the unholy fiends!
"Made my life a bloody misery."
The cigarette is pulled out and thrown to the floor
Where the heavy boot, sole or iron, stamps it flat
A terrible habit, they say; but not one to care
Grim grey smog plumes from the carrion nostrils
The fingers, ivory and dry, wrap tenderly around the handle
The gun cries out in euphoric glee
Raised high into the air, then aimed at the heathenous demons
Who would stand against all that is sacred and...
"What a [tornado fang]ing farce!"
There is no sacred
No love
No joy
No more Gods to speak of
Around the trigger, tenderly, the finger goes
And the thumb pulls against the hammer; tugs it back slowly
Crimson eyes, like fires of undying hatred, glare ahead
No compassion to be felt; remnants of a dead age
"Hell's waiting for you. Have fun."
The terrible grin; teeth bared maliciously; wicked glare from the grave
The skullen head lets out a cruel laugh; the mirthful dirge
And then the trigger is pulled
Bang! Bang! Beats the drum of death!
The gun cackles in delight; an ecstacy of carnage
The bullets, the flesh, the blood spurting
From what was once a demon; the monsters are on the floor
This is a firefight; a massacre! There will be no lament!
And, when all is said and done
The pale man looks to the floor; in shame, perhaps?
At what he has done
The gun, engraved with the words:
"MEMENTO MORI" - a reminder of death
Pants in orgasmic sensation
The taste of blood dripping from the barrel
The taste is sweet
It is the taste of an existence most cursed
The gun is put away
And another cigarette is lit
And the man; not a man, but a phantom
A skeletal messenger of death
The pale rider, he looks to the black clouds in the inky sky above
And there, with a vile smile of the afterlife scorned
Lets out a laugh
"That's why they can't get me:
I'm Trigger Mortis!"
The little flame springs to life
In the moonlit shadows of the midnight streets
The dim glow shimmers nonchalantly
No breeze to blow it
The teeth bite down on the cigarette
The tip, with the little flame
Dancing around it eagerly
Turns a bright red colour
A deep breath; but no lungs to inhale
A thin ream of smoke trails from the burning tip
Melancholically floating into the air
And whisping away into the ether
A deep sigh; but no lungs to exhale
"You crazy little fuckers."
A hand, bony and white
No flesh and blood, just white bone
Flexes its fingers in agitation; waiting
Slowly, it slides down to the hip
Thumb and forefinger bend at the joint
The fingers rattle against the metal body
In the holster, the gun waits patiently
It can feel the tension in the air, and it's hungry
Kill the infidels; burn the heathens!
Kill, kill! Maim, maim!
The gun cries in a bloodied frenzy
Eviscerate the unholy fiends!
"Made my life a bloody misery."
The cigarette is pulled out and thrown to the floor
Where the heavy boot, sole or iron, stamps it flat
A terrible habit, they say; but not one to care
Grim grey smog plumes from the carrion nostrils
The fingers, ivory and dry, wrap tenderly around the handle
The gun cries out in euphoric glee
Raised high into the air, then aimed at the heathenous demons
Who would stand against all that is sacred and...
"What a [tornado fang]ing farce!"
There is no sacred
No love
No joy
No more Gods to speak of
Around the trigger, tenderly, the finger goes
And the thumb pulls against the hammer; tugs it back slowly
Crimson eyes, like fires of undying hatred, glare ahead
No compassion to be felt; remnants of a dead age
"Hell's waiting for you. Have fun."
The terrible grin; teeth bared maliciously; wicked glare from the grave
The skullen head lets out a cruel laugh; the mirthful dirge
And then the trigger is pulled
Bang! Bang! Beats the drum of death!
The gun cackles in delight; an ecstacy of carnage
The bullets, the flesh, the blood spurting
From what was once a demon; the monsters are on the floor
This is a firefight; a massacre! There will be no lament!
And, when all is said and done
The pale man looks to the floor; in shame, perhaps?
At what he has done
The gun, engraved with the words:
"MEMENTO MORI" - a reminder of death
Pants in orgasmic sensation
The taste of blood dripping from the barrel
The taste is sweet
It is the taste of an existence most cursed
The gun is put away
And another cigarette is lit
And the man; not a man, but a phantom
A skeletal messenger of death
The pale rider, he looks to the black clouds in the inky sky above
And there, with a vile smile of the afterlife scorned
Lets out a laugh
"That's why they can't get me:
I'm Trigger Mortis!"
