HOUR 10 The Oil Painting’s Flaws

The Oil Painting’s Flaws

A noble offering presented,
Captive subject to their art,
Passive sitter, dehydrated as the brushes stroke,
And the kindred imps design their masterpiece.

Impressed by his magnificent suggestion,
I goad him on, desiring above all else to be his.

A noble offering presented,
My graceful body for his art,
Passive concubine surrendering to his affections,
And the splintered being breaks into my soul.

Impressed by his magnificent power,
I goad him on, at first, but his demeanor alters.

A noble offering pinned,
Captive subject to his grip,
Passive temptress, deflated by his masterful body,
And the cracks in the painting begin to show.

Terrified by his magnificent awesome domination,
I plead with him to show a merciful side.

A noble offering, I desire,
My fearful body for his art,
Passive slave to my own ravenous desires,
And the bars on my self-inflicted prison sketched.

Terrified by his ardent yearning, hungering for him,
I plead with him to offer his loyal adoration.

HOUR 9 The Last Tango in Entrechat

The Last Tango in Entrechat

In his exquisite state I approach,
Refined in my appearance,
Delicate in my step,

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 his envy,

To fiend takes to the stage,
Solitary in his solo,
Exhibiting aloud,

Music plays at our behest,
I take the front seat,
My shadowy twin,

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.

My shadowy soulmate increases the volume,
Tempo gathers pace, like his twists,
Turns flex further, another elbow,

Melancholic intrigue bathes me passionately,
Soaking in Dyer-Bolique’s warm glow,
Audience to our elastic prey,

Entrechat, the beat of a rabid heart,
He takes flight and slams,
Tearing his knee,

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,

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 with the offal of a dead man,
Slowly roasted.

Now his barely breathing cruelty burns,
Now he suffers,
Now he dies.

HOUR 8 Woeful Waltz

Woeful Waltz

As the sheets dampen beneath our salacious accord he makes his 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,
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.

‘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.

HOUR 7 The Necrotizing Narcissist

The Necrotizing Narcissist

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.
My Dyer-Bolique smirks, 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 him.

Within our souls our ecstatic spirits quell with our soiled lusts,
Without relief our prey squeals against the trappings of the organism.
My Dyer-Bolique glares 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 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,
My Dyer-Bolique flays 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 him,
Beginnings of a tasteless covalence, as he fills me beyond comprehension.

Suffering peaks,
Satisfaction fulfilled,
Twin forms becoming one,
The Merging of bodily Mayhem.

HOUR 6 Horror’s Harmony

Horror’s Harmony

Our paths merge, eminent member of the academic world,
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 web entice,
Draw the fly to the spiders, tarantulas masked in etiquette.
The major seeks out my counsel, as manipulated,
As anticipated. For 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 rising within us, sparse room between us, melded together.

Our paths observe as the major comes, Dyer-Bolique, my protegee waits,
Hides in the shadows for an opportune moment, a silence,
Administers the sting of slumber, and we move him. Subtly.
Awakening in the labyrinth, constrained, we inflict the noxious disease.

Trust will be taken.
Orchestra chimes demise,
Anguishing malady administered,
An intimacy in death gifted.

HOUR 5 Revelation’s Rhapsody

Revelation’s Rhapsody

Accessing his blemished mind, hearing his 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.

Dyer-Bolique expresses himself, 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.

He speaks, my Dyer-Bolique, and I make my observation,
Observation of his own guarded soldier offering civility,
Civility akin to a passion, incoherent to society,
Society ailing, our uncompassionate 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 his vicious and manipulative self,
Self that must trust, but cannot be trusted, she to his he,
He, the only one who understands, contemplates suffering,
Suffering and its method, I await his decision.

The target set,
The sacrifice found,
Our elation to come,
Our corruption soon fed.

HOUR 4 Dyer-Bolique


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, your lamented incarceration,
Victim of your own wantonness, warmth soaks me.
As our joint prey 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 you grows so too does a challenge,
To quell the screaming paranoia urging you to escape,
And fuel the curiosity forcing you 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 dominate.’

The adoration of my Dyer-Bolique…Welcome!

HOUR 3 Aesthetic Display

An Aesthetic Display

‘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 his hand in mine,
Leading him 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, the 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.’

HOUR 2 The Last Supper

The last Supper

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 his adversary.

Removed from the therapeutic environment,
He sits at my table, haunted by voices,
Discourse of a split mind.
I serve him fine cutlets, my own recipe.
Tender, prepared, just as I prepare him.

‘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.’

He digs into the flesh placed before him,
Listening to me, and the dark tones of his 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 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 my honoured guest,
A fine meal?’

HOUR 1 Session


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.’

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