In a chilling world of shadows and whispers, Act One: Artistes follows the mesmerizing yet deadly duo of Valkyrie and Dyer-Bolique, who teeter on the precipice between desire and destruction. Their twisted therapy sessions become a theatrical dance of deceit and dark desires, revealing the panoramic horror beneath their seemingly harmonious facade.
Diving deep into the psyche, Valkyrie, a cannibalistic therapist, unravels her own travesties while enticing her fervently twisted patient, Dyer-Bolique. As they explore their shared hunger for justice through unrelenting violence, the boundaries between predator and prey blur, laying groundwork for a sinister alliance that relishes in the suffering of the unworthy.
With each chilling exchange, the stakes rise, and whispers of betrayal loom on the horizon. Their psychopathic symbiosis becomes a lavish banquet of gore, but as they delve further into their shared insanity, unseen consequences begin to sew the seeds of impending doom.
Witness the unfurling tapestry of their dark ambitions, as their love grows entwined with deep-rooted bloodlust. But will their bond withstand the sinister forces lurking in the shadows, or will their heinous desires lead to a tragic metamorphosis? In Act One: Artistes, the performance is just beginning—where each act promises a deeper plunge into horror and an exploration of the monstrous nature of desire.
Summary
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Dark Psychological Intrigue: In Act One: Artistes, Valkyrie, a cannibalistic therapist, and her patient Dyer-Bolique forge a sinister bond as they explore their shared fascination with vengeance and morality. Their therapy sessions reveal hidden desires and unveil a macabre connection fuelled by a hunger for justice against the unworthy.
- Twisted Culinary Delights: As Valkyrie serves dishes crafted from her victims, the narrative delves into the shocking transformation of moral boundaries. The pair’s gruesome dining experiences symbolize their descent into a world where love and madness intertwine, setting the stage for a chilling exploration of obsession and brutality.
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Imminent Betrayal and Consequences: As the duo’s dark passions grow, hints of potential betrayal emerge, foreshadowing the unravelling of their twisted bond. Act One captivates readers with its rich tapestry of horror and psychological complexity, leaving them poised for the impending chaos that awaits in their perilous game of life and death.
Act One: Artistes
Overture, Part the First: Silent Killers
Therapy Session (Valkyrie)
I saw through your soul at first sight,
Soulless soul,
Hollow as mine.
Tiger’s spirit; Judge, jury and executioner,
Rolled into one ball of calm fury.
Seeking me out for my own travesties,
Such is the nature of your calling.
Next on your list,
My penchant for the Death Dramatis, a failing,
At least to you.
Appointment made, counselling the lies,
In each word of deceit sits a truth,
I am as naked to you as you are to me.
Both eluding the authorities,
Failing to offer expected motive.
Motive is desire, nothing more,
Seekers of sanctions and retribution,
Unleashing a fury on the troubling.
We are natural born killers,
Punishing the unworthy.
You try to deny the thrill, justify with just cause,
Whereas I consume my prey in part,
Dress the rest as a side dish for all to see.
I hear your hollow words,
But I listen to the unspoken.
The recorder is switched off, the papers stowed,
I lean forward locking my eyes with yours,
‘Your words are gracious mendacities. I see you.
Renowned for my discretion, speak freely,
As a sheep who addresses the silent priest.
For there is much we have in common,
Baying for the blood of the unrighteous,
Bringing justice where justice fails.
Open yourself to me, offer the truth,
And we shall seek together.’
Illusion of Similarity (Dyer-Bolique)
Eloquent corruption stirring within,
A vacant void filled with ravenous curiosity,
For I see the inhuman suit from me.
A pure manifestation of my purest desire,
The vacancy within myself screaming;
Writhing in its silent symphony of macabre lust,
Coiled in on itself with immoral delight,
Patient in its own blood rapture to come.
You, the facsimile of humanity that sits adjacent to me,
Scrutinizing my being with your own unadulterated image,
Stilled acknowledgement of your duplication of death.
My heart calm and steady in your glare,
Most people go through life devoid of what we share;
A common ground of vicious aspirations,
The purest form of balanced damnation our calling,
The dissimilar methods of no consequence.
I address the would-be beast of prey before me,
Monotones of jovial unconcern ringing out,
A gambit of normality to snare my inhuman prey.
The game commences with appropriate discord,
‘A common cause does invite strange bedfellows,
Seeking what we both desire from anti-life.
The greatest form of scales to be balanced,
And always, at the end of my equity bringing hand.
Perhaps we shall both enjoy the other’s company of carnage,
Soulless in its own rapture of screams.’
Seeking the demise of the unjust,
My own form circling yours,
Drawing the chaos akin to the fly,
As the normality of a spider will ensnare you.
In time…
Overture, Part the Second: Obsession’s Desirous Slaves
The last Supper (Valkyrie)
Friend, associate, colleague?
The words escape me, absent from my vocabulary;
Perhaps a paired frosty soul,
Thrust into this icy existence.
Wielding a hand of God, or my adversary?
Removed from the therapeutic environment,
You sit at my table, haunted by voices;
Discourse of a split mind.
I serve tender, fine cutlets, my own recipe.
Tender, prepared, just as I prepare you.
‘Many go unnoticed, absent from my records.
Underhand, silent deviants, hiding.
Some with phobias, others with philias,
Attracted to the pain inflicted on others,
Such is life.’
I carve the pale meat, a steady hand,
Used to the blade.
‘One demon did solicit advice, secretly.
A penchant for youthful screams,
A need to watch the eye’s light extinguish.’
You dig into the flesh placed before your eyes,
Listening to me, and the dark tones of your mind.
‘Without prejudice he would prey,
A hyena or rat, scuttling in his own filth.
His grim needs growing ever more macabre.
He sat at this table, much like yourself,
But without my integrity, a gift bestowed only on you.
Medication took hold, sinking him into slumber,
From which he awoke, paralysed.
Severed spine.
Able to feel, blade perfectly placed.
Slaughtered over time, I relished his consequences,
Empathy inflicted; empathy enforced.
His sins bled from his living corpse…
And offered to you, my honoured guest…
A fine meal?’
A Manifestation of Myself (Dyer-Bolique)
The reflection of my own fiend insatiable,
The meal presented at your ravenous hand.
Darkness indeed enjoys company at its table,
The alliance in extermination makes a merry band.
The Imitation of me!
By candlelight I am served what I know it to be,
Delightful pieces of well-prepared culinary fare.
Human flesh served (and imbibed) on silver cutlery.
Our murderous innermost desires shared,
The Reflection within.
Civil conversation the second order of the day,
Course after carnivorous course delightfully consumed.
Listening carefully as details of the victim about us lay,
A difference in termination,
I wholeheartedly approve,
The mirror in characterization.
We continue with the grim and savoury feast,
All the while circling each other’s hidden truths.
I understand your silently screeching beast,
As mouth after mouth, we consume your victims, tooth by tooth.
The Perfection universal,
‘Your methods of disposal rough yet effective,
My own methods of vermin and swine removal not as refined.
Do share your thoughts on bodily severance.’
My own internal Serpent writhes,
Dear sweet lady, your flesh to be parted and your will be mine.
An Aesthetic Display (Valkyrie)
‘To share my thoughts would be deceitful,
When I may display the prowess clear,
Enrapture your beating heart, delightful,
A living image for you my dear.’
And with those words I chain your hand in mine,
Leading you into the depths of hell.
Wooden staircase descending into my pit,
A secret room where our desires may swell.
Beyond the basement’s simple hues we head,
Therein, bound, a limbless living corpse resides,
Adrenaline driven, pained yet present on a bed,
Drifting on death’s impending, ever flowing tides.
‘An offering to you, a gift from my cancerous heart,
I had sought an outlet for the spoils of war,
This spoil is a promise of more to come, a start,
Fear of his demise sickening beyond the limbs so sore.’
I wheel out my trolley, an array of the artist’s tools,
Colourful by suggestion, sharp and shining silver shades,
‘It is your time, the time of death for narcissistic fools,’
I state mockingly, hand reaches and passes the sharpened blades.
‘For you my kindred star,
My lost soul drifted so far,
Take off your mask, raise your head,
And show me who you truly are.’
Overture, Part the Third: Ode to Lost Souls
The Duplicitous Duet (Dyer-Bolique)
I follow the cannibalistic Valkyrie to her subterranean sanctum.
Noticing her desire to witness my dark inclinations,
I watch as she presents her array of wicked mechanisms,
The luminous glint of cold steel inviting death’s manifestation.
Blessed Valkyrie!
I glance at the being contaminated by his final moments,
Slowly pacing about the ensuing corpse; my form of amusement!
The animalistic void devouring the sight of torments,
The palatable cavern of delights welcomes my murderous movements.
My crazed Valkyrie!
The mask about my falsified self begins to slip,
My hands steady as the other takes wicked hold of me,
Soon the chosen blade within my delighted grasp,
Inching closer to he who is at his last.
Tainted Valkyrie!
The unsympathetic knife raised with steady possession,
Its own life imbued within the swollen nether regions of my abyss,
Hovering before the plunge of our sinister obsession,
Blood flows in currents and rivers of murk born mists.
The Adoration of my Valkyrie…Welcome!
My Dyer-Bolique (Valkyrie)
An inner smile spreads as my Dyer-Bolique strips,
Baring his true nature as a man revealing the flesh.
Such titillation, voyeurism with front row seats,
Man, and monster rolled into one; The beast before me.
Blessed Dyer-Bolique!
Prospecting a future, prey’s lamented incarceration,
Victim of your own wantonness, warmth soaks me.
As our joint fatality takes its last breath, I harvest the offal,
Succulent for another feast.
My Crazed Dyer-Bolique!
Veritable mirrored demons at play in their lava,
As my admiration for Dyer-Bolique grows, so too does a challenge;
To quell the screaming paranoia urging my lover to escape,
And fuel curiosity forcing him to remain.
Tainted Dyer-Bolique!
Blazing the furnace I roast the remnants of our foe,
Food and fuel served as one, true economy,
Though economics are not required.
Ashes to ashes.
The adoration of my Dyer-Bolique waking me,
Rousing the sleeper from her archaic coma,
Blessing my crazed and tainted Dyer-Bolique.
Our union…Welcome!
Blessed Dyer-Bolique!
Leaving behind our nemesis as he warms the hearth,
Finding warmth in each other,
Suggestions flow.
My Crazed Dyer-Bolique!
‘The dice has been thrown in your favour,
Find a deserving deer, let us hunt together,
Let us incorporate new methods,
And not stagnate.
Tainted Dyer-Bolique!
Justice must fit the crime, passion burned with passion,
And the victim aptly punished.
Punishment will fit the crime,
Let justice, and art, dominate.’
The adoration of my Dyer-Bolique…Welcome!
Scene One: Music to Death’s Fears
A Symphony of Choice (Dyer-Bolique)
Valkyrie roars in sanguinous, silent symphony,
Symphony offering an invitation in pairing pursuit,
A pursuit and study in melodious inflicting misery,
Misery rife with possibilities in bloodied beauty to be wrought.
Our beings moving in tandem with inner desire,
Desire out to greet each other’s dark incarnations,
Incarnations greeting the cleansing to commence,
Commence the next line of our scathing discourse.
The hunt shall commence with judicious observation,
Observation of prey chosen for their lack of civility,
Civility devoid in a broken society,
Society welcoming the unknown demise.
The creature in humanity’s form chosen,
Chosen for its own treatment of others about it,
It leads others to a ruination without purpose,
Purposeful in its lack of the truest judgment.
A foreboding sense washes over my internal self,
Self’s own melodic howl matching that of Valkyrie,
Valkyrie who will swim in the same torrents of suffering,
Suffering to be brought by our judgmental paws.
The target set,
The sacrifice found,
Our elation to come,
Our corruption soon fed.
Revelation’s Rhapsody (Valkyrie)
Accessing your blemished mind, hearing your symphony,
Symphony of words desirous to bring a despot’s pursuit,
Pursuit of one who leads his fallen comrades in misery,
Misery replacing the spoils of war’s victory, faux militia, lead guerilla.
You, Dyer-Bolique, express yourself, a guarded desire,
Desire drifts into words depicting the major’s fake incarnations,
Incarnations post absence without leave, we commence,
Commence to plot against the scourge of the country.
You speak, my Dyer-Bolique, and I make my observation,
Observation of the guarded soldier offering civility,
Civility akin to a passion, incoherent to society,
Society ailing. Our dispassionate guillotine hefty.
The target, veritable thug for hire, identified and chosen,
Chosen as deserving in an undeserving world, subject to it.
It waits beyond nonchalantly, serving its own purpose,
Purpose or pleasure, it matters not, for he has sinned.
‘What method?’ I query to your vicious and manipulative self,
Self that must trust, but cannot be trusted, my life given to you,
You, the only one who understands, contemplates suffering.
Suffering, and its method. I await your decision.
The target set,
The sacrifice found,
Our elation to come,
Our corruption soon fed.
The Melody of a Macabre Path (Dyer-Bolique)
Our paths ever crossed in a sinister serenade,
We have feasted at the demise of the chosen,
Demolished the lifeforce in the wake of our judgment,
Yet more is desired and specified in the call of our salacious desires.
Our paths set on the next subject of our callous chanting,
Your yin to my yang, enquires of a melodic method of dispatch,
A penalty befitting of he who has caught our tuned eye.
Techniques used in the form of new, glorious pleasures.
Our paths awaiting my form of destruction for the intended.
Blackened hues of coiled vengeance crawl through me,
Silent slithers move with malice upon my fractured psyche,
A hushed chorus of intent and soaring jubilation ring within.
Our paths soon to coalesce at my final blood driven decision,
‘The intended’s death to be met at our hands, fitting in my regard,
Glorious and sweet to be dealt in blissful suffering,
Swift and painful will be my gift and his final agony-induced reward.
Thanatomorphosis, to necrotize alive.’
Trust will be given.
Orchestral chimes demise,
Anguishing malady to be administered,
An intimacy in death to be gifted.
Horror’s Harmony (Valkyrie)
Our paths merge, for I am an eminent member of the academic world,
An all-access pass where access is formidable and oft denied,
I acquire the malady from its cool, secured prison,
As requested, Necrotizing Fasciitis, a hungry microbe.
Our paths fuse, careful words spread across my social web entice,
Draw the fly to the spiders, tarantulas masked in etiquette. Valkyrie and Dyer-Bolique.
The major seeks out my counsel, as manipulated,
As anticipated.
For even the most ardent overlords sit in a haze of paranoia.
Our paths are one, anticipating the deadly summit,
Our bodies become one in the thunderous mists of the hunt,
Entwined and enraptured, a swirl of naked aggression.
Heat rises within us, sparse room between us, melded together.
Fury driven lust.
Our paths observe as the major comes,
‘Dyer-Bolique, my protegee, you wait…
Hide in the shadows for an opportune moment, a silence,
Then, administer the sting of slumber.’
We move the war villain. Subtly.
Awakening in the labyrinth, constrained, we inflict the noxious disease.
Trust will be taken.
Orchestral chimes demise,
Anguishing malady administered,
An intimacy in death gifted.
The Necrotizing Nocturne (Dyer-Bolique)
Within our inner subterranean sanctum our victim lies,
Without the comfort afforded a man of stature such as he.
You, my Valkyrie, look on, in stoic regard of our morbid creation.
The protagonist of our undisclosed retribution rouses in suspicion.
Pulses of uncontrollable tremor wrack the would-be leader’s bound limbs,
Beginnings of sublime blood emanate from the ocular orifices.
Within our own devoid existences, we revel in the carnage commenced.
Without the pleasure of anesthesia, the subject of our dark desires descends.
My Valkyrie continues her silent rapture as the scene continues to unfold.
The protagonist continues his exsanguination and at our murderous intent,
Pulses of fever, escalating in crimson ascent of madness inducting agony, quake,
Beginnings of the euphoric finality that lies in tortured death strike.
Within our twinned souls, our hands meet, the labors of our torment bearing fruit,
Without the unrewarding reprieve, our victim writhes in terror.
My Valkyrie trembles at the sight unfolding in a theatrical display of gore.
The protagonist increases his cries in an escalating crescendo of pain,
Pulses throb behind his eyes, giving way to the satisfactory detonation of ocular discharge.
Beginnings of the overture in suffering that rings delectable to our ears.
Suffering not yet peaked,
Satisfaction commencing,
Twin souls becoming one,
The Merging of bodily Mayhem.
The Necrotizing Narcissist (Valkyrie)
Within its cage, my heart beats, as our victim’s breast reeks and splits.
Without sympathy we view our living picture, and the wounds spread.
You, my Dyer-Bolique, smirk. Lovely eyes awash with icy disdain.
The protagonist, hero in his own mind, grimaces as his lip peels,
Pulses heave on the tide of cowardice, his teeth bared through locked jaw.
Beginnings of a rare satisfaction tremble through me and call to you.
Within our souls, ecstatic spirits quell with our soiled lusts,
Without relief our prey squeals against the trappings of the organism.
You, my Dyer-Bolique, glare into the swamps of my being, fixated.
The protagonist gurgles as the invisible ants flay him alive.
Pulses rip my insides in an explosive bonding with my missing piece,
Beginnings of a mutual tsunami building within as we watch his skinned demise.
Within our chasm, predators feed prey to Beelzebub’s furnace.
Without constraint, without social performance, without care,
You, my Dyer-Bolique, flay the satin cloth from my aching body,
The protagonist of MY story carries his Belle from their lair.
Pulses electrify my long-suffering form, throbbing need for you,
Beginnings of a tasteless covalence, as you fill me beyond comprehension.
Suffering peaks,
Satisfaction fulfilled,
Twin forms becoming one,
The Merging of bodily Mayhem.
Somber Samba (Dyer-Bolique)
Rapturous bodies heave in the lust urgency of becoming one.
We were willing witnesses to the scene and grotesque masquerade,
The vision of our new unity brought to life, as life was undone.
Phantoms of the rapacious demise before our collective consciousnesses’ displayed.
Satisfaction retreats in the wake of our transient beings,
New flesh to be extracted to satiate the ever-growing desires,
The next whirl of the massacred lechery also must be found and unwilling.
One pirouette at this new camaraderie stoking my own fires.
The wheel shall ever turn in favor of the choice of execution,
‘You, my salacious Valkyrie shall bequeath our next target,
Your choice should be ever just in favor of the unjust expiration,
A heightened challenge to challenge our venery and testing subject.’
A new laceration in dance begins,
She will choose,
Blood driven step.
Woeful Waltz (Valkyrie)
As the sheets dampen beneath our salacious accord you make your request,
Queen of the predators to choose the king’s deserving prey.
As our bodies merge once more, minds spinning in destruction’s lust,
Queen of the predators contemplates her offering.
Thoughts of our fury drive fury on,
Heated in dominance’s turn,
Desperately needed,
Wanton, sated.
Pas de chat.
‘The wheel shall turn against the exquisite choreographer, Jean-Pierre.
My salacious Dyer-Bolique, he is a cruel ballet master,
His choice; to use the casting couch for his own performance,
A heightened challenge to perform the arabesque, thereafter rejected.
Thoughts of the ballet master’s cruelty drive on,
Heated by his heartless, fickle adagio,
Desperately, deceitfully taking,
Wanton, capricious.
Changements.
‘Flexible in his gait and movement, let us test his suppleness,
Twist and bend each limb, in preparation for a celebratory meal,
A date to exceed all others in its culinary wisdom and technique,
A veritable rond de jambon.’
A new laceration in the ballet begins,
He will accept my choice,
Blood driven pirouette.
A Ravenous Rond de Jambe (Dyer-Bolique)
Our collective conscious sweetly plagued in agreement,
Her resolve at style over fleeting fatality,
Pleasant in the thoughts of the hunt,
For now, the hunt commences.
A body torn asunder,
By one’s own hand,
A true Volta.
Now we attend to that which matters to the twin entity most;
The target to be laid low within the sanctity of his own surroundings,
An alpha predator in his own sovereign swan like wilderness,
To be brought to cavorting mortality at the whimsical hands of violent grace.
Now we move in separation, as one animation of bloody intent,
A target marked upon his stage. Unrequited passions!!
As if the would-be hunter awaited our call met,
A potent concoction of my own composition,
Soon to be administered during interlude.
We await his sole rendition.
Alone at last he begins his solitary turn,
Unaware of my concealed presence,
All it takes is a poisoned prick,
My angel dust purveying my spurn.
Now open to suggestion, his final dance,
For the Valkyrie approaches,
Testing his elasticity,
Stuck in the trance.
Now he contorts,
Now he suffers,
Now death comes.
The Last Tango in Entrechat (Valkyrie)
In his exquisite state I approach,
Refined in my appearance,
Delicate in my step,
Benign.
Feeding his ego, as he will feed us,
I request a demonstration,
Extreme prowess,
No limits.
His ego swells in my presence,
Angering Dyer-Bolique,
Such is your envy,
Irrefutable.
The fiend takes to the stage,
Solitary in his solo,
Exhibiting aloud,
Symphony.
Music plays at our behest,
I take the front seat,
You, shadowy twin,
Watching.
Prima Ballerina glows with pride,
As he offers his performance,
For my eyes only,
No limits.
Pliable plier, bending his back,
Etendre, his leg stretches,
Sauter et tourner,
Jump and turn.
Tempo increases, carefully chosen,
Confused in his entranced state,
Plier, etendre, sauter, tourner,
Faster and faster.
Each flex and bend pushing his limbs,
Hurtling towards the extremes,
Pain is an illusion now,
First snap.
He laughs manically as his elbow breeches.
Through the skin, bone protrudes,
He is unfazed by the crack,
My puppet.
You, shadowy soulmate, increase the volume,
Tempo gathers pace, like his twists.
Turns flex further, another elbow,
Ghastly.
Melancholic intrigue bathes me passionately,
Soaking in my Dyer-Bolique’s warm glow,
Audience to our elastic prey.
Entrechat.
Entrechat, the beat of a rabid heart,
He takes flight and slams,
Tearing his knee.
Unstoppable.
Blissfully unaware, the creature pushes himself,
Down on his knees, locked in the harmony,
His back bends, further and further,
And snaps!
Music ceases, silence reverberates throughout,
A duo, and a solo artist, unwittingly broken,
We approach the stage as he lays.
Paralysis.
Our hands meet as we push the mangled being,
Head meets feet, severance of spine.
Our gloved hands lift the mess.
The meat.
Basted in honey,
Dressed in the offal of a dead man,
Garnished,
Slowly roasted.
Now his barely breathing cruelty burns,
Now he suffers,
Now he dies.
Scene Three: A Work of Art
A Portrait in Portent (Dyer-Bolique)
Our passions; ever filled by the cruel fulfilment of primitive desire.
We bask in the glory of our own intellectual sadism,
Never perennial and lasting in its fleeting solace.
A new offering upon bloodied grandeur’s throne,
Presently to be proffered to you, my Valkyrie.
The individual; a martyr to my void,
A sacrifice to your wanton macabre.
To suffer in extended bliss,
Subservient to my brush.
Stoic and bound in self,
Internally tormented,
Hapless against us,
Touched on canvas.
Immortalized.
The Oil Painting’s Flaws (Valkyrie)
A noble offering presented,
Captive subject to our art;
Passive sitter, dehydrated as the brushes stroke,
And we, kindred imps, design our masterpiece.
Impressed by your magnificent suggestion,
I goad you on, desiring above all else to be yours.
A noble offering presented,
My graceful body for your art,
Passive concubine surrendering to your affections,
And the splintered being breaks within my soul.
Impressed by your magnificent power,
I goad you on, at first, but your demeanor alters.
A noble offering pinned,
Captive subject to your grip,
Passive temptress, deflated by your masterful body,
And the cracks in the painting begin to show.
Terrified by your magnificent awesome domination,
I plead with you to show a merciful side.
A noble offering, I desire,
My fearful body for your art.
Passive slave to my own ravenous desires,
And the bars on my self-inflicted prison sketched.
Terrified by your ardent yearning, hungering for you,
I plead with you to offer your loyal adoration.
Sculpture in waiting (Dyer-Bolique)
‘My Mistress of unlight, you command pursuit of the brutal and profane!’
Ever insipid in your own crimson distinguishability,
Clawing and demanding of my dark and tortured affections,
‘I will yield to that which you desire with presiding intrigue.’
Inner-self and commanding force mold you unwittingly to my will,
Your innermost desires to be met at the graciousness of my hand.
My Mistress of the shadow wishes dark desires fulfilled,
Impulses that will be thoroughly shaped into mine.
With subtle hand and masterful stroke will you be made anew,
Painted and commemorated in the image of wretched obscurity.
The imperious nature of myself yielding, with sleight of hand,
Every wish, I shall acquiesce to your murderous intent.
‘My Mistress born on the scarlet wings of hellish inclination,
You shall want for nothing…’
In accordance with my framework,
Mere clay to be shaped in accordance with my fire-fueled Hadean craft,
A beautiful and terrible image modelled on my perceived subjugation.
With your permission obtained I set forth adoration,
Ever aware of my task at hand and the surreptitious bending of your will.
My Mistress, created of a tumultuous relationship we savor and endure,
‘I shall become docile in your quest for the perfect victim…’
One to be molded and statuesque in splendor,
Our love to be completed by my own bloodied artistic impression.
Carved By His Hand (Valkyrie)
Complicit in your responses, feeding me the words I long to hear…
Yet, I listen to the subtle ironies and undertones,
The microcosmic expressions that barely give you away;
Painful intentions to control and subjugate.
I sense it, I feel it, I fear it!
Yet, our shared secrets lock us in destiny’s arms.
Caution creeps in, and I play the fool, or perhaps the fool plays me,
‘Sister Aurora, a Godly woman in dress, but something wicked hides within,’
My dishonest words cascade from the ridge, testing you.
‘Creator of murals, creator of etchings on soft skin, her murderous hubris.’
I wonder if you sense my deception.
‘Artist becomes subject to our vision, stilled and starved.’
You give nothing away, lack expression. I delve deeper.
‘Charitable member of our priory, answerable only to God. Or US!’
My fingers trace patterns about your neck and shoulders.
‘She would come if called, assistance in the community.’
The snare is set, the seed of an idea rapidly shooting and blooming,
My grip tightens, kneading your tense flesh, my dire lover.
Needing your rigid flesh as you gasp for your own accord.
‘Would she not make the perfect subject for our canvas?’
My lips brush yours as I await a stern response.
Inside I burn,
Inside I fear,
Inside I tremble,
Inside my suspicion flowers.
Is this what you desire?
Am I to be carved by your hand?
The Sanctified canvas (Dyer-Bolique)
Propositions in quarry you, my Bathory, have introduced.
Expressionless consternation the champion to silent seduction!
Tempted and moved at my prompts in the search for sanguinity,
Her manipulation giving flight to the avid inanition.
By unwavering hand, the stage of prolonged murder constructed,
My Valkyrie’s suggestions heeded and brought to fruition.
In the eyes spying a consecrated building; the nun to be abducted,
Clear in thought and charged with an unholy purpose. Driven.
I seek your proposed target,
A venerable one to be sure,
‘My conscious needing redemption dear mother,
For myself and possibly on behalf of another.’
She seats me among ever forlorn pews,
Their lonely occupation, welcome news.
I convey my darkest sins upon her attentive habit,
Her wary face soon soaked in tear-stained realization,
‘Dearest sister if you resist it will be problematic.’
Soon to be a mannequin in pursuit of my love’s creation.
My gift to your wickedness, I so have developed,
Blissfully unaware of my own gruesome intentions.
Ignorant I am not of the innocence of the holy zealot,
I offer the woman up, uttering to you a benediction.
Exsanguination at the Easel’s Alter (Valkyrie)
Strangely subdued, she surrenders to our intentions,
Minimal restraints required, posed perfectly.
Diabolical benediction spoken from her host’s mouth,
Sarcasm perpetuating through every word.
Outline paint required, torniquet tightened, needle penetrates,
As the needles of your eyes penetrate my inner thoughts.
My deception unveiled.
Crimson fluid pumps into the vial, expecting the dip of my brush.
Meticulously, I produce my art, your gaze burns with each stroke.
Defining the haughtily submissive angel, I mar the canvas,
The unblemished habit forming within the scene.
Unblemished and innocent, my love letter to you.
A second vial required, coolly I fix her with my stare,
Knowing that her piety will deny me any response,
For she has faith.
Dyer-Bolique, your faith is lacking, but the potent chemistry remains,
Acid and lye, simmering, preparing for a mighty explosion.
Etching the canvas mirrors my etching of her frail skin.
The night drags on.
Her lips click with an arid thirst, but the seal remains closed.
Her hands cross on her trembling lap, the shuddering consumes.
A wasted meal, for the mutton is tough, indigestible, noxious.
My antics prove less palatable as you relish and loathe the test.
A final vial ensures closure, our masterpiece complete,
My Werther to your Goethe, despised for the truths within.
Exsanguinated and at peace, inflamed and charred,
But through the canvas her legacy lives on.
Your wrath tears through as we become one,
Uncontrollable,
Unhinged.
I fear that I may win this tournament,
But have a more insidious game at hand.
Scene Four: Cards and Wine
The Roulette of Artistic Rendition (Dyer-Bolique)
My passion spent upon the ruins of your unadorned flesh.
Eyes willfully burning in the amber conflagration of utmost rage,
Your body, the yielding witness to my emotionless onslaught,
Your destruction of that which I deemed innocent, fueling my ignition.
I had watched,
I had observed,
I circled,
I am one in vexation.
We reflected each other’s morbidity,
We sang the tune of bloodied evolution,
We danced at the sight of destructive retribution,
We created from the mold of our own brutalness,
We must now complete the contest of our spiraling darkness.
You have watched,
You observed,
You circled me,
You are found wanting.
Our absence of that flavorless idea of mercy bound emotion,
Our malevolent and insatiable natures shall circle one another,
Our bodies will soon be spinning in grim unison,
Our lives cast at utter odds in the gambit for intended supremacy.
Your ire will come,
Your life now forfeit,
Your body to be broken,
Your existence ended,
Your body rendered,
Your essence revolving.
The Hand That is Dealt (Valkyrie)
The hand that is dealt, from emergence to ashes,
Unable to quell that need within, eternally alone,
Until I saw the fire in your eyes.
Wrathful fire, flames that burn with fervor and fury,
Simultaneously they spark, incinerating us constantly,
Until I saw the fear in my soul.
The hand that is dealt, from emergence to ashes,
Unable to fall without a fight, unable to submit,
Until I saw the fire in your eyes.
Wrathful vengeance intertwined with intense craving,
Simultaneously needing the kill, Struggle for control,
Until one of us drowns.
The hand that is dealt, from emergence to ashes,
Unable to relent, enforcing the arousing struggle,
Until one of us is extinguished.
Wrathful pride forces my hand, and I offer the sport,
Simultaneously unable to surrender, bloodied hands,
Until one of us is subdued.
The hand that is dealt, from emergence to ashes,
I lay my cards on the table,
To oppose the other’s supremacy,
‘We pick the prey of our opponent,
And the kill must go ahead.
Regardless of attachment,
Regardless of innocence,
Regardless of kinship.
The loser forfeits freedom, to the will of the other,
And the victor determines the price!’
Confident of my ability, I await his response,
And my impending sovereignty.
Hold’em Callous and Close (Dyer-Bolique)
The challenge thrown at my feet, acceptably met in delight!
The cold occupant of my blood-drenched void,
screaming in silent elation;
Twin, opposing souls to deliver sweet agonies in the form of the other’s plight,
Cold psyche casting its devious intent to you, my beloved’s, murderous provocation.
The flop
The beginning of our macabre game,
A round preceding the expected in escalation.
The challenge, wonderous in dark anticipation of the sublime killing to come,
Gambling between polluted souls, concluding in the winner’s roaring dominance.
Mind cast and ready for the deliverance of innocent lives, sorely to succumb,
Or dice soon to be cast against the other passions of our true disturbance.
The Turn
The opportunity to offer the unexpected,
A round fitting of horrendous continuation in stakes.
The challenge magnificent in completion.
Finality, bound in its termination.
What cold desires shall we reign on the other, devoid of man’s consequences?
To relish the suffering in each other, soon be dealt in tones of goaded exaltation.
The deck stacked with nausea inducing repercussions.
The River
If you do indeed make it this far,
A round with all on the line, or one last trick to ruin.
Nostalgic Whist (Valkyrie)
Exhilaration flares in your own anticipation,
Unaware that I have completed a thorough investigation!
Located the weakness, identified my trump card,
And am eager to play.
Enthusiasm for the game’s degradation,
Unwittingly suspecting my abject failure, poor stakes indeed!
Nostalgia, his only childhood friend, and confidante,
Succulent in his ignorance.
My hand is played, the aces polished and laid,
Only friend, aside from our strange dalliance, only friend.
Lost in time to sentimental memories, but still treasured,
Chris’s chips are down.
Driver by trade, effortless to entrap in the merciless snare,
Summoned by a phone call, self-employed, others unaware.
Innocent by no means, a secret penchant for the bottle,
Accidents in the rear-view mirror.
I hand you, my beloved enemy, the number,
‘The punishment must fit the crime,’ I remind,
‘In the wine cellar below you will find a wine press,
This must be the tool of his demise.’
I quell my urge to laugh, sweet is my revenge!
Surely Dyer-Bolique has not been so thorough,
Surely my aces have trumped his hand.
The Croupiers Vintage (Dyer-Bolique)
I stand stoic and ready,
unashamed or moved by your command.
You set your cards at play,
the demise of discerned brethren, to be mortally harmed.
I do as you instructed!
Unwavering in grotesque purpose,
Dialing up my spirited friend,
My voice highly insistent.
He arrives by car at the location given,
Reeking of apricot brandy.
I demand not to be driven,
I guide him inside to turn him into Chianti.
He stumbles at my behest,
The stairs his worst enemy,
Footing not the best,
Unaware of impending calamity.
Inquiries are introduced,
At sight of the ancient wine press,
My intended victim seduced,
Ignorant, and soon to be put to rest.
I entice him closer,
‘Dear friend of old,
Never fear of getting sober,
Wine favors the bold’.
Shuffling on to impending doom,
His bright red face,
Soon to be utterly removed,
Welcomed to its final resting place.
Where grapes are crushed,
His head peeks in,
A turn of the crank,
Murder is my mortal sin.
Slowly I churn,
His body goes numb,
For out of his ears,
Spurts the remainder of cranium.
Body convulses in surprising throes,
My dear friend Chris,
Out the press’s tap,
Your tainted blood flows.
My task now complete,
A friend extinguished,
I shall now greet,
You with your contestant.
As chunks of jellied cerebrum,
Coat my bloodied hands,
‘Dearest Valkyrie,
Give up your brotherly cherub.
For it’s the angelic Jon,
You shall terminate,
Completely sever his throat,
With crimson hues he shall be innate.
Your choice of weapon, creative must be,
A rusty instrument will work quite well,
Perhaps a farmer’s sickle,
To send the angelic boy to hell?’
Her Poker Face (Valkyrie)
You drag the pickled remains to the alter,
And carve the marinaded meat…
Without hesitation, without consideration,
Frozen in the realms of a psychopath.
Observing, an internal alarm creeps over my mind,
Tarnished by your researched request,
So alike in thought and deed that you anticipated my every move,
And forced the Blackjack into my shaking palm.
Tender slices fall from nostalgia’s thundery storm,
Bagged and stored in ice, as the remains catch fire,
‘Fuel and food,’ such hollow words from my own being.
Dyer-Bolique in name, diabolique in nature.
Our abode heats up furiously, fueled by your anhedonia,
Trapped like a rabbit forced between the headlights.
I acquiesce in deed, though my mind cries from its depths.
The call is made. My brother comes.
Jon, the younger cherub, in youth under my protection,
Unable to envisage any harm upon him, his big sister.
I see the child engaging me through adult eyes, pleased.
Small talk persists as YOU look on, growing ever impatient.
At length, caught in my own trap, I lead him into the abyss,
The sickle awaits, lurching on the shelves, just as Dyer-Bolique planned.
Mind’s eye opens to the image of his demise,
A slit to the throat, gaping wound.
His head tips back, cries stifled,
Blood pours relentlessly,
Guilt enshrouds.
Mind’s eye opens to the image of his demise,
The child, not the man, adoring,
Unable to comprehend,
Unaware of my ego,
Guilt enshrouds.
Dyer-Bolique redirects my dear brother, quick decoy,
And surreptitiously forces the sickle in my hand.
Dyer-Bolique smirks with utmost cruelty,
Aroused by owning the winning hand.
Ice flows through my veins, and steams,
Conflict causes a quivering,
Sickle drops,
The Fall of the House of Cards (Dyer-Bolique)
I watch on as you fail, quivering as you lament in the cruelest of tasks given,
My unholy command for the blood of your untainted brother not forthcoming!
Resolution now guides my form, smirking in shadowed ecstasy.
I retrieve your dropped farming implement with steady hand,
The sickle’s hilt firm in my practiced and unforgiving palm…
Silently I move to end your undying, fraternal love,
For I grab Jon’s head with a menacing grip,
His widened eyes betraying realization,
A brisk stoke, a deluge of arterial spray,
Another stroke coats you further.
The shrouded air, cerise in hue,
A third severing silky sinew,
Forth ripping cartilage,
No fifth produced,
Rapid hand tugs,
Decapitation.
Screams, cries, and a veritable cacophony of sound do greet me,
For I am victorious and ecstatic at the true joy soon coming,
‘Now Mistress of Macabre, Valkyrie you are completely mine,
Subservient to my will in a game you introduced.
If fate were my ally, its smiles on favorably,
Your ensuing slavery now commencing.
The head of your brother gifted,
Booming shrieks retreating.
You whimper as broken,
Your power depleted,
A self-made victim,
Now surrenders.
My true power,
My iron will,
Your life…
Mine!’
Scene Five: The Magician’s Craft
The Trickster Dyer-Bolique (Valkyrie)
The trickster Dyer-Bolique made his pledge,
Attended as my patient, faking closure,
Allowed me to see what he wanted me to see.
Scales fall from my eyes, blinded by vanity,
Arrogance’s pride.
The trickster Dyer-Bolique made his pledge,
A mask of irony worn to our first supper,
Allowed me to see what he wanted me to see,
Yet guided my culinary feast, my plan anticipated.
Hubris’s guide.
The trickster Dyer-Bolique made his turn,
Turning feigned paranoia into trust,
Allowed me to see what he wanted me to see.
Manipulated the hunt, but his cold heart chose me.
Desire’s disdain.
The trickster Dyer-Bolique made his turn,
Fogging my mind with self-doubt and fear,
Allowed me to see what he wanted me to see.
Twisted my hand, forced the game to proceed yet still,
Chose me.
The trickster Dyer-Bolique won with prestige,
Embraced the test, for his friend he had no heed,
Allowed me to see what he wanted me to see.
Pushed my weakened limits, possession his intention,
Tricked me.
The trickster Dyer-Bolique won with prestige,
‘In honor of a game won fairly and played well,
I surrender my life to my now captor’s hands,
And only ask that the mercy in your heart does swell.’
The Naïve Valkyrie (Dyer-Bolique)
The Naïve Valkyrie, too confident in your haste,
Those who would be devoured by you, issued swift invite,
For you saw what I allowed you to perceive,
A repour in civility concealing a desire to deceive.
Pride’s punishment,
Watch closely.
The Naïve Valkyrie, driven on by blood fueled salacity,
Preoccupation and control of those you ensnared,
For you saw what I allowed you to perceive,
Absorbed in your own hellish and brazen cravings.
Lust’s lament,
Watch tentatively.
The Naïve Valkyrie, murderous movements filled by outrage,
An aspirant in righteousness and spirited vengeance,
For you saw what I allowed you to perceive,
Provoked on course for retributive and unrelenting justice.
Wrath’s worthlessness,
Watch over here.
The Naïve Valkyrie, resentment of your possession’s past life,
Indignant and malice compelled you to seek the self-tormented demise,
For you saw what I allowed you to perceive,
Compulsive in single minded direction, ever causing a painful decision.
Envious enmity,
Watch carefully.
The Naïve Valkyrie, a glad reprieve I shall grant you, solace and reprieve,
Your far travelled palate accustomed only to the finest,
See what you wish to see, as I want perceived,
Enjoy my succulent offerings, prepared only from the finest fare.
Gluttonous gourmand.
Are you ready?
The Naïve Valkyrie, if you chose what you should perceive,
You would no doubt be accustomed to that taste,
For within the trappings of your own larder and kitchen.
I processed the meal you consume,
Not wanting your brother Jon…
To go to waste!
The Magic of Puree Pathology (Valkyrie)
Table set for two, romantic in candlelight,
Subtly dimming your true intentions.
Flickering souls tarnished by night,
Dazed by your misdirection.
Shock sets in, and passes over me, a whisper,
Lovers speaking in hushed dusk tones.
Serving my sibling, unwelcome offer,
But a grim offering none the less.
Heaving on each mouthful, my insides taut,
Eyes pleading heartfelt with you to stop.
Lust and sadism indistinguishable,
And I serve both masters.
Pulsating inside as you watch my tears,
Always manipulating my weakness.
Relishing every mouthful forced,
Rising to my suffering.
The meal is complete, but this is initiation.
I sense that your plans run deeper.
Advantageous secrets,
Trust misplaced,
My downfall.
Gazing love and fear’s cocktail into your dark eyes,
I attempt once again to gain your absent mercy,
‘Dyer-Bolique, with higher hand and magic art,
You have won.
I submit to your will as you wish,
But plead that you show mercy.’
The Vicious Voila (Dyer-Bolique)
Amidst hazel light of candle luminosity,
Amongst the array of sordid creations,
Mercy entreated, but shall not be shown,
Your own predispositions seldom cloned.
You request a respite from the hand that feeds,
Always pleading the case of subservience.
But my own internal undertaking soon to fulfillment,
All I can do is endure your savory and inflictive tones.
My own metamorphosis soon upon us,
Your descent into madness vital to my cause,
The corruption of your body and mind,
A lasting gift in purification’s form.
Slowly I cater to your physical needs,
Dwindling ever more at the flick of my whim,
Cautious in the shattering of your psyche,
All aiding my revelatory becoming.
Though wheelchair bound and intravenous drip aided,
My dark being nurtures your transition.
Loving and solemn, I don’t say a word,
Deprivation of conversation a useful device.
Great timing upon us as I finally speak,
‘My sweet dark angel in depths of sinister desire,
I removed your imperfections, unsightly, not needed.
I commenced with your febrile leg,
Voila!’
The Caged Bird’s Aria (Valkyrie)
Dependent on the doting demon that enslaved me,
Crippled by your steady hand, pain thwarted,
By that which you administer cautiously,
Ensuring perpetual imprisonment.
Dyer-Bolique, you removed an unwanted lower limb,
Chaining body and soul indefinitely to your sin,
Your silent whispers mouth ‘no pain.’
Singing in my wicked steel cage.
In your sights before I knew of your shadowy existence,
Targeting your kindred spirit, only to cage her,
That was always YOUR design!
Words of surrender no longer pass my lips,
It is given wordlessly, and enforced aggressively,
Duplicitous Dyer-Bolique; protector and prison guard.
Still, you share your torture of others with me,
Still, you touch me with rapturous passion,
Driven by the thrill of my defeat.
Swollen with my suffering.
I do not speak, but I sing to appease your fervent ire,
The dulcet melody disarms your fortifications,
And I please you with my passionate tones.
Day and night merge, submission is a waiting game,
And the opportune moment arrives,
As you descend to our basement,
I try to flee.
The chair so thoughtfully given, drives forth,
Towards the unguarded portcullis,
The key is turned quietly,
Handle pulled down,
Door manipulated…
As freedom calls to the caged bird within,
Your shadow looms behind me,
Laughing, scolding.
I resign to his tones,
His tongue licking my tears,
Glowering over loss’s humiliation.
‘I warned you,’ he whispers, ‘On deaf ears it fell,
It breaks my heart to inflict this destructive, cruel hell,
But one arm will suffer your leg’s degradation.
Boxed or caged with one arm, and one leg,
You shall appreciate my protection so much more,
Without further ado, I shall operate on you,
Then love you, so you will leave me nevermore.’
As freedom is denied to the caged bird within,
Your shadow constructs my all,
And as you steer me astray,
I hear the stagehand cry,
‘Time for curtain fall!’
Find The Thorn and His Rose Intermission here
Find The Thorn and His Rose Act Two here