Broken Various Authors
BROKEN POEMS BY: HEATHER BURKE JANE TIMM BAXTER DAVID BYRON STORIES BY: DAVID BYRON/ JANE TIMM BAXTER @COPYRIGHT 2007 DAVID BYRON PUBLISHING Index 1. Alone / Heather Burke 2. Death's Kiss / Heather Burke 3. Broken / Heather Burke 4. The Darkness / Heather Burke 5. The Black Veil / Jane Timm Baxter 6. Red Energy / Jane Timm Baxter 7. Mutilation / Jane Timm Baxter 8. The Bite / David Byron 9. Awaken / David Byron 10 Entity / David Byron 11. Ten Nails / David Byron /Jane Timm Baxter 12. Nosebleed / David Byron/Jane Timm Baxter Alone By Heather Burke Sometimes I feel like I am completely alone I'm trapped in my thoughts with no one to hear my cries for help but my own mind I cry out for help but no one is there to hear me Sometimes I fear the Thoughts of my own mind They encourage me to end my loneliness But this is something I don't have the courage to do So I suffer alone in my own dark thoughts and silence Broken By Heather Burke I'm broken like a doll waiting to be thrown away I cry out for help from my friends but help is not there So I sit alone in the dark with nothing but my dark thoughts I fear nothing can fix me I've been broken to long You claim you can fix me But I've heard that before I fear it's to late for me I've been broken to long You're welcome to try but you can't fix everything No matter how hard you try to fix me I remain broken Deaths Kiss By Heather Burke Darkness washes over me as blood seeps from my wrists My eye lids start to droop as my breath becomes shallow I welcome the growing darkness that is filling me with deaths cold kiss My mind is filled with endless pain that is ending by the minute As the blood leaves my vain's tainting my bath water pink that darkens with ever passing minute Taking me from the pain that has left me dead inside Without you I'm but a shadow of the person I was I'm drowning in the sorrow of my broken heart that is easing by the minute As I take my last breath as the last of my blood flows out of me All I can think of is you The Darkness By Heather Burke The darkness of my heartbreak is a dark shroud around my heart That holds in the lost letting my pain fester Dragging me deeper into the darkness until I'm nothing but a hollow shell Wishing for a death that never comes hoping for an escape to dull the pain sinking deeper in to darkness I see a light that burns through the darkness that light is you freeing me from the darkness and making me whole once again The Black Veil By Jane Timm Baxter The black veil is over me And I am lost in fear Of what I may do Should blades come too near � I may cut out my heart I may throw it on the floor, I may slit my throat For I need not my life no more. I am tired And I am lost in the dark And I feel nothing Not even a spark Of anything that should keep me Here and whole. The black veil has me In its grip tonight, in its soul. _________ __ _______________ _______ ____________ ____ ____________ _____ ___________ _____ _ _____________ _________ ________ _______ __!__________________ _ "!________________________ #___________ _$_ __ #___________ ________ #___________ _______ %______________ _______ #____________!_____________ &________________ ___ ________ _______ ____________ _______ __________!____________ ________ ________________ #_______________ #_____ ___________ '_!____________ #____!___________________ _________ _ ___ ___!___ Mutilation by Jane Timm Baxter Mutilation on my mind Again, and feeling dirty In my brain, wondering� Wondering� Wondering what it would be Like to cease to exist Completely. You think I care What your God says about it? I am lost without God Tonight, Alone With mutilation on my mind, Wondering what it would be Like to cut through my wrists And lay bleeding on the carpet. To destroy my face with slashes So no one would be able To recognize me in my coffin- It would be a closed coffin affair. Mutilation on my mind, And I am trapped inside this prison Formed by my depressive thoughts And lack of hope. Lucifer laughs at my pain, Laughing at the chaos in my brain, And at the mutilation on my mind. BiTe bY: ''DoC'' As the fat full moon blinds the dusk, you rise up beside me, kiss me awake, I feel my body jump with spastic shudders, as the current from your throbbing pulse beats against my skin. I feel your cold, I feel your heat, both entwined together as one, I feel alive in your arms, but yet so weak. My heart hammers, my viens pulse fire, can you hear my heart beat, smell my blood? Yes....you know all my weaknesses..... Then....I feel your bite... and I let myself go, as I spiral down into the sweet blackness known as your love..... AWAKEN There was no need for her nakedness, not yet. But she was glad she'd shed her clothes. Scents of dogwood blossoms and wet grass filled her nostrils. Better than the smell of death, decay. Putrefaction. It began raining, washing the moldy dirt from her cold skin. She stood staring at her hand. Earthworms ran the length of her palm, still hungry. She shivered, shaking with anticipation more than discomfort. The first rays of the early sun backlit her hair, making it shine like blue steel. Her eyes cavernous sockets, her mouth a dark maw, she awakens, feeling ravenous. Her body shrunken, bones brittle like dry sticks, craving the embrace of a dead lover again. Craving blood.......blood........ ........the taste of love. The taste of flesh and bone, wet and slippery. She has awakened. Entity dark footsteps fell, as I slept, an unseen entity, slowly crept. Shadows loomed, over my bed, dark dreams and visions, filled me with dread. I awoke with a start, to confront my fears, only to cry, long dormant tears. For the entity who stalked me, roused me from sleep, was the ghost of the love, who's death I weeped. As she smiled at me, a vision of the past, the longing pain, was over at last. I took her hand, as we ascended love's high gate. TEN NAILS BY DAVID B. and Jane Timm Baxter Killing always makes me hungry, I suppose. Hungry for more death. If lives are destined to be wasted for my message, then so be it. They are still wasted lives, nonetheless, even if I had never intervened. I am making their lives more noble; kind of majestic. They'll be mourned and pitied and finally left alone, as they should be. Were born to be. Martyrs, all of them; crucified to an invisible cross; at least three or four every night. Very soon, their bodies will be plastered all over the news and then they will see my message. And, of course, for this very reason I am very much attracted to those young boys who work in the strip clubs; the pole dancers. The other night I was at the Club Jizz, sipping a bourbon on ice and this young Asian boy with lank hair and an awkward tongue leans on the bar, starts the inevitable social graces. He is dark-skinned and slurring his words, drunk as a mad cow but his bodily movements are stunningly precise. He reaches out, stroking my long, raven hair and saying, �Oh, c'mon baby....we are gonna have a REALLY good time tonight.� We most certainly do. After I'd sodomized the little sleaze, I choked him to death with his own severed penis; it had sounded like someone had been jamming a hambone down his gullet, and then the imagery wasn't so bad. �FAGGOT!� I said, kicking him as he lie writhing and choking on the bathroom floor. I kicked him in the guts - WHAP!! - and his eyes are bleeding tears and a crimson fluid spills from his nasty little mouth. WHAP! �You.� WHAP! �Little.� WHAP! �Fucking.� WHAP! �FAGGOT!� Then he mercifully died. It's sad, really. Nobody cares about the bodies I leave lying around, either. They'll continue to lie around rotting softly in the sun until they shrivel up like raisins. Maybe someone will eat them. Heh. Derelicts will pluck the money from their pockets and the other places I�ve put it, to buy cheap wine. I found one the other day - had been there about three weeks already - still lying there in his pretty, glittery black dress and high heels. Blood had caked hard from his carotid artery and it had made his face a lovely shade of crimson. Amazingly, the money was still there, soaked scarlet with his blood. The sleek stem bisecting his smooth back. I take more ten dollar bills (more messages) and tuck them into his ears and mouth. I slit more orifices along his shrunken abdomen, fuck them, and then write messages on his skin in his own blood. Then, I go back to the club. * * * I'm cold now, precisely cold, lying on a soiled mattress in a cheap motel room. My neck hairs are a gentle black, sharp against the silver of the zippo. My current bedmate thought it would be amusing to singe my neck hair, so I let him. He had black hair that was slick with oil and jizz and the cutest little pink ass. He is in a dirty, rat-infested dumpster now, his slender ankles lined with yesterday's news clippings. I opened his wallet, removed a ten dollar bill, wrote ''we are alone'' on it, then tucked it between his cute little butt cheeks. He will smell bad in a few days, but no doubt some fucking freak will pluck the money from his reeking butt crack anyway. It will end up traveling all over the State, smelling of a dead boy's bowels. But, at some point, you have to face the fact that even a lifetime's worth of work isn't going to get you anywhere, let alone make you famous. You could be a Pulitzer prize winner or the fucking President or a faggot junkie, but the fact remains you are not going to live forever. Martyrs, all of us. No one is going to be with you when you die because death is such a singular journey. Death starts the very moment you leave the womb. A martyr, I have been, since the time I was born. I can no longer even cast a reflection, as I lost my soul long ago. But who needs a soul when you are destined to rot on the ground anyway? My time will come eventually too � I know this. But I will still be a martyr forever. NOSEBLEED BY DAVID B. and Jane Timm Baxter �I�m bleeding,� the old bag lady says. She smells like shit and roses. I stare coldly at the strange old woman slumped on the sidewalk. Her lips are raw and red like winter hands. Lipstick is smeared across her face. It makes her look like a demented clown; the bright red against her pale, withered skin. �I think you just applied too much lipstick,� I tell her. She frowns at me, her gnarled hands knitting an imaginary cloth. Her dress is a tattered mockery of drapes, linen-like, thick and dirty. She has newspapers wrapped around her feet and held together at the ankles with string. I'd found my own clothing inside a plastic bag, a dress jacket and slacks. I'd put them on before the cop had showed up. Appearances are everything, aren�t they? The old lady's teeth are gray and rotted. She smiles and the stench increases. I gag, trying to hold the vomit in my throat. �I'm bleeding!� she says again. �Moon's blood!� �Oh....,� I say. There is nothing else to utter. �Do you happen to have any tampons?� she asks me now. �No,� I say. �But, there is a drugstore right down the street. You could probably steal some there.� �My nose!!� she screams now. �It's bleeding too!� I look back at her again; she is having a nosebleed. It�s pretty bad. She stands up and comes close to me, dripping blackish blood on my clothes. I shove her away, as gently as I can. She mutters something and walks away. I turn and walk away too, not knowing what else to say or do. I wipe my hands on the blood on my jacket, but it just smears. I walk toward the nearest coffee shop, stopping to glance at my reflection in a store window along the way. Upon closer inspection, I see I haven't shaved lately. The multitude of gray hairs make my flesh look as gray as the winter sky. The wind blows hard, the air having teeth, as if it is about to snow. The bookstore I am standing in front of has a coffee shop, so I walk on in. �Coffee, dark,� I say. �And three sugars.� The woman who brings me my coffee looks nervous. �I saw you looking in the window,� she says. Are you homeless?� �No, I was looking at my reflection,� I say. It is a lie. �How vain,� she says, smirking. �The owner says you have to leave.� �Why?� I ask, bewildered. �I just bought a coffee.� �I know, but I am sorry, you have to leave. NOW.� My coat is the problem, I think. It is still splattered with the old woman's blood. �They are only ketchup stains,� I say. She just forces a smile and shakes her head NO. I smile, and then sling my cup of piping hot coffee violently across the counter at her, watching it explode against her face. She screams in agony at the burning pain, her arms flailing around like a broken puppet. �You fucking maniac!!� the store manager yells, coming at me with a broomstick. Then everything goes black. * * * White. White walls. Shit smeared on the ways. Urine on the floor. You wouldn't expect a clean bathroom in a dump like this. An orderly has wiped my ass, my baggy, bone-white pants are hitched back up around my hips, and I am placed back into my wheelchair. It's time to go back to the rumpus room. The room is full of rejects from a low budget horror film; a room full of zombies, crammed with tiny tables littered with playing cards and ashtrays. The medications we are all on make looking at the white walls a fun experience. I would like a cigarette, but I can't smoke one with this straight jacket on. �You only have so long to live,� I tell the orderly who is pushing my chair around. �And, as you know, we are all alone. There will always be white walls, clear walls, brick walls.� I pause. �Crusty old bag ladies.� The orderly says nothing. I say, �A tumor could be kissing your brain, or a cell of fat sucking on your aorta.� The orderly nods, silent and unblinking. �Do you believe in reincarnation?� I ask him. �Of course!!� he says now. �See that old lady over there? That's Adolph Hitler.� Then the orderly laughs as he wheels me over right next to her, and leaves me there. The old lady looks familiar. I'm not so crazy I can't recognize the nosebleed lady. She recognizes me, too. �Enjoy your coffee?� she asks me, her gray teeth encrusted with blood. �Sorry about earlier,� I say, not knowing what else to say. �You Jewish?� she asks, as she reaches over and jams two of her long, jagged fingernails up my nose, getting a firm grip. He wiggles her fingers until I feel the blood begin to spurt from my nose. I look down, my vision obscured by the woman�s fingers, but I can still see the blackish blood pouring out from around her thin claws jammed in my nostrils. I close my eyes, not knowing what else to do. This is hell, I think, as the reincarnation of Adolph Hitler laughs and finally dislodges her fingers from my nose. My nose drips blood as I sit in my new hell. AUTHOR CONTACT: HEATHER BURKE [email protected] JANE TIMM BAXTER HTTP://WWW.MYSPACE.COM/THEAUTHORESS DAVID BYRON HTTP://WWW.MYSPACE.COM/DOCCREEPER OR [email protected]
Copyright © 2007 David Doc Byron |