Beast From An Irrational Hell

Don't slather me with your bile
And then claim that I made you sick
I am innocent in this crime
It is I who is a witness,
And you are a perpetrator
I exist in this ozone of poisonous vapors,
But I didn't park my car in a green zone and leave it running
You may have forgotten that you brought in your gases
Left the lid off and then turned and walked away
Though your memory slipped
It is so,
You can't forget what you did just because shame causes you to be weary
At the far end of a spectrum of wishy washy blabber
You are as clean as bloodied whale blubber
That is smeared on your hands from when you killed them
And when you clubbed baby seals
So what if your wearing a tutu
In the eyes of my god who is in all purposes me
Your clothes don't make you
And besides they were made by someone else
And you are only using them to disguise you
Here in the blank tone of your sweet lie
Others can believe you the saint in this world
But the smell of feces is underneath your skin
And you slither your words and mine as well slither your self
For you may just be  a legless scaly lizard
A sickened version of a limbless human being
A sort of demon that needs to be castrated and put in your place
So you can somehow resemble a human.

Possible Rough Opening for New Book

What could be said of Adam Lancaster except that he was an exceptionally unfortunate child.   At the ripe young age of six he would discover something of himself that would forever change who he was.   Before that however other events transpired and shaped him so that when this ever changing event did finally occur he was already on route to be one sort of person.  With great confusion this story will be told.   For if no one knows the impossible, no one can explain it.

            Adam had a certain curiousity that was common among young boys who were often left up to their own devices.   He would wonder amongst the trees in the woods behind his house and find underneath the moist logs a world of bugs and salamanders that scurried about to hide themselves from a spring or summer son.   He would often kneel in for a closer look and once in awhile when his curiousity granted him enough courage he would reach a hand down and allow the creepy crawling things that existed their to explore his appendages and make their ways up his arm.   He never once was bitten by these insect and never once screamed in fear.

            When he wasn’t doing that Adam was in all honesty a rather dull child and only lightly educated.   He had been removed from his public school environment was was supposed to be partaking of an education at home that would have been delivered by his mother but that alas never really happened.   Things ideally had started out towards that route and Adam Lancasters mother had been prepared to teach him everything she knew, but beyond simple mathematics, and simplistic sentences, the only thing Adam truly perfected at that time was how to legibly write his name.

            His mother was called Alice and she was a dutiful sort of mother and loved her child with everything she could muster.    It was unfortunate then that she met the man named Grant Hawkins who introduced her to recreational drugs, and segued into a whirlwind of narcotics until eventually he initially coaxed the lovely Alice into injectin herself with heroin.  The rest as it is said is history.   Those traits that we often associate with wonderful parents were plentiful in Alice when she was sober, but she was seldom not sober, and all the time that she was under the influence of her second more powerful love, she was powerless to be a proper mother.

            Adam looked forward to the times when he would have a chance to be held, hugged, remined that he was special.   When Alice was clear headed she did just that, and bathed him, and read him stories to get him to sleep.   There was a warmth in their relationship that would have made everyone take notice, but unfortunately Grant Hawkins was also a part of this picture too.

            It was around the time of Adams fourth birthday that the man he once called Uncle Grant was becoming his “new father” as his mother had pointed out.    Adam was instructed to refer to him as daddy, and papa, and Adam happily obliged.   The man had wore his disguise well, slithering his way in to the heart of the pair.   In those times he was a warm sweet man, honest, genuine, or at the very least he had been exceptionally well at acting the part.   Till one faithful day the knuckles bruised against the small of Adams back.    He had dropped a small scotch glass on the floor after being instructed to retrieve it with his five year old fingers.   The licquor was drenched and sitting amongst the liquid of whiskey that soaked into the floorboards.   The footsteps were quick and heavy, and the sound of a the creaking recliner as its occupant left it were a haunting reminder of when it all started.    After he was struck Adam laid about the floor beside the shattered glass wailing, and the man Grant Hawkins returned to his chair with a new glass of whiskey, and remote in hand holding down the volume button, and turning his head to tell the pained boy that he didn’t hit him hard enough to warrant the outcry.  Alice was present and absent as she laid on the couch with a belt tight upon her arm and her neck cranked back and eyes to the ceiling as if studying the ceiling fan as it spun and twirled while young Adam sobbed into the whiskey that seeped towards his face.