I am nocturnal .
The dimming western rays
stitch malevolent shadows to my heels ,
and spill burnt orange streaks
across the fading dark blue light .
Time for me to prey on souls ,
lost and lonely , in the ink of night .
Lately , I have begun to feel empty .
Dark ideas keep turning
over in my mind .
I have become depressed
about my life .
Looking back , I know
I have made others suffer .
More than I am suffering .
I keep having strange impulses .
My thoughts guide me .
I wish the torture would end .
I am self-doomed to isolation ,
my perception of reality
is socially disconnected .
My hideous crimes ,
my monstrous powers,
are secretly genuflected .
The dam of impotent frustration
will burst , given time .
I validate my self-image
and justify my actions ,
at my abhorrant shrine .
I have descended
into the pits of hell .
This carnival of horror ,
this evil odyssey of Milwaukee .
I cannot help myself .
I have disregarded the point of no return .
This gruesome charade
has become me ,
has overtaken me ,
and my abberant thoughts
become terrifying actions
in my deadly delusional world.
I live at Apartment 213 ,
in the run down part of town .
Multiple locks on my doors
keep evil in , and reason out .
There are empty beer cans and dirty dishes ,
cheap artworks and threadbare rugs ,
and the tangible atmosphere
of dying mens final wishes ,
as they succumb to a cocktail of drugs .
A large knife , next to the bed .
Polaroid photos of the dead .
And in the fridge , a severed head .
I keep my freezer well stocked .
Two plastic bags , containing human hearts .
Various internal organs , and muscle .
Three heads , one torso , one skinned face ,
and something unidentifiable
frozen and stuck to the base .
In the hallway closet , with the bedding ,
drums of muriatic acid , ether , chloroform .
Two bleached skulls , grinning on a shelf .
A large aluminium kettle , on the floor ,
containing hands , and genitalia .
Welcome , dear friend ,
to my version of hell .
The bedroom , grim and stark .
Bloodstains on the mattress ,
and splashed up the walls .
A metal filing cabinet next to the bed ,
containing three skulls painted green ,
a complete human skeleton ,
painted black and red ,
and paper bags
full of mummified scalps ,
sliced from human heads .
A cooler box , on the floor ,
containing two more skulls .
A blue plastic drum , sealed ,
containing three human torsos ,
in various stages of decomposition .
Nobody hears the screaming in my head .
Nobody wants to listen .
The fragile debris of ordinary life
jostles with the curious and sinister .
Coffee cups on the table ,
an empty bottle of rum , crushed budweiser cans,
a packet of lucky strikes .
Bottles of bleach , now not so innocent .
Air fresheners and incense sticks ,
to battle polluted air .
Hypodermics and drill bits ,
scissors clogged with blood-matted hair .
A claw hammer , a hand saw ,
and various identity cards
strewn across the floor .
My Apartment is my prison .
Of vicious memories
and visible horrors .
I am surrounded by human debris and waste .
I sleep amongst it .
I eat beside it .
I perpetuate it .
This is the nightmare from my mind .
This is my charnel house .
I lay with corpses .
I cherish the dead .
I worship them at my temple .
The door is locked securely .
Denying the world .
Heavy black curtains cover the windows.
Blue globe lamps cast eerie shafts of light ,
illuminating drifting wreaths of incense smoke.
The black draped table is lined with skulls .
Painted skeletons hang from the walls .
This is the shrine .
Later tonight ,
Jeffrey Dahmer will be out and about .
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