Dedman’s Morbid Mausoleum of Dark Poetry

Dedman’s Morbid Mausoleum Of Dark Poetry: Murder Whispered In My Ear…

Dedman’s Morbid Mausoleum Of Dark Poetry: Murder Whispered In My Ear…

Dedman’s Morbid Mausoleum Of Dark Poetry: Murder Whispered In My Ear…

“The cold table remains forever open to all and is a muse for my darkened artistic lucidity,
A pact made with the Devil allows for my playthings to fester as in kicks their rigidity;
Oh how fragrant the stench of rot is to the senses and beautiful are the marks of lividity,
So many questions as to how they have arrived at their ending and what caused this morbidity;

Layer of dermis displaced and muscle past rigor are moved to show the grisly verity of fatality,
Manner and method of their expiration can be benign or sweet violence of the utmost brutality;
Many wonder about the ingredients and malicious intentions of homicide and its lasting lethality,
For eons the masses had visions of being forever but weep upon the ending of their mortality;

Fear not as I find the reasons for your passing and I prepare your body for its final destination,
The tools of my trade are sharp and precise as I cut and stitch with an almost unreal application;
There is certain glee to the machinations of my hands that some see as butchery and mutilation,
When mourners come to pay respects there are few who can’t help but admire the preservation;

The question will remain as to whether your death was natural or was it forcefully abducted,
In the casket you will take your final walk as the march towards the grave can’t be obstructed,
Whether to the gates of Heaven or Hell only you and I know as the final rights are conducted;
All that I know is that I have done what the voices in my head whispered to me as instructed…”

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Dedman’s Morbid Mausoleum Of Dark Poetry: A Wraith’s Infernal Lullaby

Dedman’s Morbid Mausoleum Of Dark Poetry: A Wraith’s Infernal Lullaby

Dedman’s Morbid Mausoleum Of Dark Poetry: A Wraith’s Infernal Lullaby

“Shadows of Dust, A Specter’s unrelenting Agony,
The splintered Reality, Blackest reward is Alchemy;
Enunciate thy Pain, Perpetrate outward in Blasphemy,
Vociferation details Anguish, A Soul befouled Maggoty.

Shade of Detritus, A Phantom’s inexorable Misery,
An unconnected Actuality, Baseless means of Mystery;
Vocalize your Torment, Represent forward as Trickery,
Exclamation without Angst, Psyche projects as Witchery.

Phantom of Rubble, A Wraith’s adamant Suffering,
Of broken Realism, Determination fades to Smothering,
Articulate thine Torture, Sufferance leads unknown Guttering,
Enunciate the Excruciate, Mortal coil experiences Puncturing.

Ghost of Wreckage, a Poltergeist’s unappeasable Bitterness,
Tattered bits Surrealism, Expectations dissolved as Dizziness,
Pronounce thou Distortion, Damnation begets a Slipperiness,
Alliterations within Consternation, Drained in Death’s Wilderness…”

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Dedman’s Morbid Mausoleum of Dark Poetry: Of Immolation and Graveyard Dirt

Dedman’s Morbid Mausoleum of Dark Poetry: Of Immolation and Graveyard Dirt

Dedman’s Morbid Mausoleum of Dark Poetry: Of Immolation and Graveyard Dirt

“The bells toll to start this funeral procession, much too late to hear a confession as I now release you from your transgression…

The smell of graveyard dirt is sharp in the air, pungent and wet as it is turned over by my spade,
A hole six feet deep into eternal darkness is burrowed while the worms watched, laughed and played;

The location is unruffled with a hint of perplexity, known only to my disciples in feverish secrecy,
Never will you be found in this unmarked grave even as you scream for unheeded mercy ceaselessly;

This unholy ritual performed by my mortician’s hands is unwavering in its complexity and yet simple in execution,
As the air runs low in lungs that burn and sound becomes muffled in a consciousness that now comprehends this retribution;

Ponder whether the betrayal was worth the kinship that was given up, collaborations that could have been legendary,
You sold your soul to a false idol whose words sparkle like false gold that have done nothing but buy your place in my cemetery;

It is now too late as you realize your role, I warm my hands as if by lumps of coal while watching the immolation of your soul…”

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Dedman’s Morbid Mausoleum Of Dark Poetry: Of Betrayal And Hypocrisy…

Dedman’s Morbid Mausoleum Of Dark Poetry: Of Betrayal And Hypocrisy…

Dedman’s Morbid Mausoleum Of Dark Poetry: Of Betrayal And Hypocrisy…

“The Reaper of wayward souls is but one of my many vocations, a title that is not lightly bestowed upon the animate being,

A stab to the back and trust cast aside for those that didn’t care before is tantamount to a disaster for eyes unseeing;

You have forgotten who I am and the machinations of my words will be a remembrance of pain,
I speak the truths that are feared and forgotten but are never quieted in the twisted minds stain;

The fog undulates in slowly, masking headstones that litter the necropolis that is my dominion,
A home of bleakness that terrifies the soul and yet has an allure that sparks many an opinion:

Candles flicker in the whispers of wind and a pentagram is drawn with the dust of crumbled bone,
The summoning is on the cusp of delirium and damnation as I am about to reap what you have sown;

The smell of fear is sharp and bright in the hallows of the surrounding tombs, very sweet in taste,
Brotherhood is a bond not easily given or taken but it is one you have thrown away in a pitiful haste;

Forevermore now cast in my shadow and left to wonder what could have been now as you feel the crushing wither in your soul,
The sting will come when your casting out occurs at the hands of the wicked hypocrisy that lies to you but you will not see it until the bells toll;

My resurrection is at hand and is time to remind everyone just who the Hell I am…”

 

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Dedman’s Morbid Mausoleum Of Dark Poetry: Aesthetical Massacre of Experience

Dedman’s Morbid Mausoleum Of Dark Poetry: Aesthetical Massacre of Experience

Dedman’s Morbid Mausoleum Of Dark Poetry: Aesthetical Massacre of Experience

“Whisper your sins to me as I am your Grand Inquisitor, the master of your torment and pain,
The tools of my trade promise nothing more but sheer brutality and a torrent of sanguine rain;

Secrets kept hidden in the shadow of cognition will be heard by ears in octaves that are profane,
Shrieking has polytonality that sends shivers through the spine that make it infeasible to refrain;

Arterial spray stipples the face as a grotesque mask of gore, a portrait of necromantic glamour,
A canvas of flesh aches for expression as I muse where to use the clawed end of a hammer;

Fingernails pulled and bones broken in a symphony of anguish not seen since the days of Inquisition,
Delight taken in spasms of distress as we press forward to unknown boundaries of this expedition;

Amputation is the butchers delight as the saw screams in triumph during the removal of flailing limbs,
Organs shine in the paleness of the light as necropsy begins like turning pages for the proper hymns;

Rapture that you thought was yours in passing now belongs to me as consciousness begins to fade,

You are now the newest piece in my gallery of sin, painted and sculpted with the brush that is my blade;

Whisper your sins to me as I am your Grand Inquisitor, the master of your torment and pain,
The tools of my trade promise nothing more but sheer brutality and a torrent of sanguine rain…”

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Dedman’s Morbid Mausoleum of Dark Poetry: Damnation of the Marrow

Dedman’s Morbid Mausoleum of Dark Poetry: Damnation of the Marrow

Dedman’s Morbid Mausoleum of Dark Poetry: Damnation of the Marrow

The Goddess of Darkness in my dreams, Oh how She whispered the desires I had longed to hear in the hollows of my rotten marrow;
Her frame a Gothic perfection, the Unholiest reflection, a visage of the most unearthly beauty to possess and hold would be much too narrow.

Summoned by inner turmoil, angst at its most absolute depths as loneliness led me by the hand to a Demoness of the utmost callous disposition;
Skin of immaculate alabaster, an utter and flawless disaster, a fleeting vision of eternal bliss that was never more than a fleeting apparition.

The wanton desire to please, absolution of my soul withheld as Her wicked design was laid out with the most sinister of dark intentions;
Lips of such softness to kiss, a walk along Hell’s abyss, a neurotic need to please despite the lamentations of others and their unheeded interventions.

She cackles most cruelly at my vivid torment, Her eyes ablaze with passionate glee as the Succubus fells me with anguish shot by an arrow;
Hair so soft and wispy, salvation but a dream and too risky, Oh how She whispered the desires I had longed to hear in the damnation of the marrow…

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