by Lliam Amor, Dan Beeston and the Goatlord.
©2009 Dan Beeston
Can’t sleep. Can’t eat. Can’t fuck.
I know you did this thing, neighbour man. You did this thing to that lady and you left her child there alone. Alone and cold, cold and crying, crying and waiting, waiting and watching, biding its time; I know this to be true. I know you planned to blame another but plans can be such fickle creatures. Are you aware that “fickle” rhymes with “sickle”? Sick sick sick. You have a sickness, neighbour man. I want to help you. Let me cure you with a sickle. Taint no lickle thing to be cured by my sickle fing.
The man of the house, fill’d with such content
hears the tortured cries of his child’s lament.
But you know what scene the man came across when he heard the sound that should no have been. Did you smile to yourself, neighbour man? Did you indulge yourself a private little chuckle when you heard the anguished cries?
Time. Time is all you have left now. But know this, before you’ve even come down from your little power trip, the man’s self-loathing and self-recriminations will be replaced. His energies refocused, on you. Your flimsy ruse will be torn asunder and only then will you realise how quickly the sand has trickled through the hourglass. Fickle sickle trickle. Time’s up.
Behold the humanimal: I think therefore I lie.
Time never ends and you shall have eternity. Looking up from your watery grave, giving ruminations to the deeds that led you to damnation. Regret will come easy, I’m sure, just as I’m sure it will only be afforded to your capture. I know what kind of neighbour man you truly are.
If only you were special, the only one to unleash the full force of you dark heart’s malice. MALICE AFORETHOUGHT! You oh so common creatures.
As is the way of all things, problems arise. The problem, I perceive, is perception itself. Am I the man, the finder of other’s deeds? Please, let me not be the doer of such deeds; neighbour man of the corrupted heart but my perception is awry. Perhaps I am the lady; of whom the very deeds have been perpetrated on? Mayhap that would be preferable, the struggle and inevitable release via deed was short in comparison to the longevity of the deed’s consequences felt by those left behind. Most likely, I am the child, the witness of deeds. Soaked in the lady’s essence. An essence that will give mine own, purpose, for good or for ill. Though, I am me, surely I can be no other but my perception is off so which me am I?
Above all this, what I truly wish to know is not that of the how but the why.
Why do I know these things?
Can’t sleep. Can’t eat. Can’t fuck … fuck.