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A Pict In Hell
An endless charcoal mountain range for my amounting rage, feet keep pace, I can’t leave just yet, a man on a mission with a dumb idea, persuaded, a few points should be taken from my intellect. Tornado tourniquets somersault over the blood red sky, from the carcass of a levitating alien God, left behind, puddle-splashing over us all, bandage the canvas, the paintings I see when I close my eyes. Collecting family tags, I’ll bring them back; I am the last one left, call me scab and pick on me; my name is Pict. The smother of sulphur serves as a colour for war culture, a warning against other hunters. I bury hellhounds in pet semetary’s, giddy up on Greyon, my mission is flourishing, I can’t see it ending.
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Cernunnos
In the belly of my beast, my own is hungry, I am eating angels down here, empty insides, this is where the wings stop. I walk up on, upon the utmost diabolical horns, was I wrong to walk upon, knowing I will get impaled up on The Devil’s horns? His angular jawbone cut, cut threw me like Able’s fate was, facing these consequences, even if it’s eventually evilly lethal. I see into his eyes, to get out I must climb, I am seeing behind the magical hands of a midnight’s time, beyond the damage folds of a rust igniting sky; now, look through my disguise, into my big bright eyes; have I come toe-to-toe, Hells all time low, with my own time?
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The Wraith Writher
A sandstorm cloud carries on, a canary winter, beneath it lives a hunter killer, the wraith writher, a dusty saffron drifter, concealing death in hand, amour gripper. I came in riding as a day-lightening whipper, in the flash of a whisper, a soul reaper for crime committers. All communities created create cults, and this festering blister, a city assortment of prisons, is full of treacherous fellows, perverted politicians, and deadbeat scum. The Devil should have warned them that I have come, and to run. One swipe of my sword, a skeletal head had fallen off, right onto the floor; bottleneck the blood, the smell of rotten eggs eviscerates nose-hair in smog. The damned are crammed and feeding on the black little lambs, so I stamp and I stab at each of the men with a laugh. Let them run, let them hide, I have come for an unknown soul’s revenge, I have come from time and have none to lend.
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Envenomed Elixir
Skin skewered, pinned through it, pain, a ringing music, a cure, I am limping to it, death, minutes to it. A flower so powerful, it cures all in an hour or two, then I will be back to cower the cruel. I reach my petal and and inhale a breath, so gentle.
In the depths of my mind, thoughts of Breaking Bad swirl, trapping me in a fantasy world where I’m consumed by a false high. Drugged up to my eyeballs, I feel like I’m falling from the sky, losing my grip on reality. Love becomes distorted into black rainbows as I dwell in the shadows of addiction. I can’t sleep, haunted by the fear of losing you. They say “One day at a time,” but it’s the seconds that torture me, counting down since your last kiss. One more hit, and I’m ready to break free. I say I’m done with you, but deep down, I’m still under your spell, captivated by the highs you offer. I loved you blindly, unaware of the darkness beneath your allure.
These love drugs toy with me, leaving me speechless and restless, a dirty secret I’ll never speak of. Reality fades as I’m consumed by the sensation of you. You’re my guilty pleasure, a temptation I want to keep to myself. Every kiss feels like the first and the last, a betrayal of my senses. This is my confession to you, but after this, we’re done.
I’ve lost touch with reality, and it’s all your fault. My broken heart and shattered dreams are the price I pay for following you. Crying alone, I realize I need to reclaim my life. It’s time to let go of the voices and the addiction. I want my old life back – my talent, my family, my girlfriend – all stolen by you.
I know you’ll move on to someone else, leaving behind a trail of destruction. But this time, I won’t be there to pick up the pieces. It’s time to flush you out of my system for good. I’ll survive without you, clawing my way back to the light, fueled by anger and determination. Life is my new drug, and you mean nothing to me. It’s over. Leave.
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Beyond Hell
They say I’m bad, broken and burned, I’m only half lonely; you’ll have to act boldly to catch this cold, bodily, yours is whole, mine’s full of holes, maggots and warm worms, this world’s at war if I have to warn with words, born with horns and a swarm of storms, I have witnessed the rains reign returned. Surrounded by the bars, shells and bricks; the now night is nigh, stars, I just need a single glimpse in width, then I can put to rest my myth in mist, I start a lie.
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My Sentence Without Parole
As a matter of fact, it’s a matter of pride and it hangs high… Like my rope choking around my neck-tie. I produce each body of work until my body is hurt, emerging from this body of dark water to show you my curse. Should I have said sorry first?? This folly is my curse to curse on the cursed. I feek and wamble through forbidden parts of my flaccid foamy thoughts, welcome to my shilpit stuck shtick of a shipwrecked existence. I threap the idea of my deep pipe-dream and chisel into my bones, I will form my face on a platform of predictive pandemonium. Keep writing, keep writing; leave life within the leap of your lies, the skies are dull, a spotlight, I’m hit by cheap lightening, so I cheat at the chessboard fights and confess wrongs rights, righteously.
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Love’s Torment
Life, Love and death, most certain to happen at one point or another to everyone, you have no choice in these matters, neither do the Gods nor devils, you may have a slight influence on when they may occur, but you can never cause these forces to react by your own will.
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Hell On Earth
Live a moment in my unmoveable momentous monument, it might merit your millennia, like it did mine. Seeing sycophants, building psycho fans with their slippery rants, they’ll all need to switch their pants, when they get the chance, because the King has returned, skinned and burned, skinny and malnourished. I pay penance with a petrified pen, play writer in the eyes of the Earth, praying liar flailing around in the fires of my moral wire or mortal-coil, my sport is horrible, spurting humble spots forward onto smashed mirrors, what hurts the most is what has been cast within us, the foreword has hatched the final villain, he’s me, bad-ass and brilliant, lavished in the ink-blood on millions of killed innocents.
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Psychopomps
Swimming where the worms live, something here dreadful is, it always incurs guilt, another sweltering swill, swells of currents could electrify, I am where children’s souls are pearls in glaring gloom of the dark glassy watery glint. I ripple through the wood-whipples and haling fishy gillings, the temperature is blood chilling, chattering-teeth has my blood dripping, holey clothes ripping by the water fin scissors, debris flipping, rippid rapid, torpedo killing in sickly acid, flitted. I reach land, a breath inward, with each hand, I grasp at so-called grass and clasp; my heads injured? Still, scoffing heavenwards, this pain is getting worse, where’s my last farewell dinner? He got one, didn’t he?
I cough up a leech, get them off – get them off – get them off of me, right there, on fossil beach, of once colossal creature-beasts, sand sunk, skull and bones reduced to faces, facing the seas, with row after row of seventy-seven teeth; I am light years away from A&E, fight off flies laying eggs in your ears, these things only come out once every ten years, fight fairies with fire, that no one can see. Dance on the spines of field, over fields of serial killers in your dreams, my trophies, here, I can rekill them and rebuild them, and have them drop to their knees, they don’t want it – they don’t want it – they don’t want it with me, there’s no stopping once I’ve stopped all the stops in me. I have begun the hunt, so y’all better retreat, back to the Devil’s feet, if you please.
I am here for the soul of a cruel woman, my step mother, she may be blind, but don’t let that fool yous, she’s the one who led me under. Her polluted saliva fluid ruins the new ones with the putrid piper music of her tiny flute strings, cultish schoolings, with such c*ntish rulings, she’s such a nuisance with the brew in which she muses disillusions. Once a beauty, always a bitch, she sold little souls to the rich and got a taste of it on her lips. First, she needed to get hitched, a bun in the oven, get down to some bread making, be a mother to her new step-kids and loving husband, so breathtaking; red flag waving, my dead arms waving; Hey you! Didn’t I tell you not to leave those kids with that lady? No clock lives here, one at a time, no time difference. They didn’t listen, did they?
Now, listening is the only thing she does, deaf to the things she doesn’t; don’t get it twisted, she’s skewers the truth, she sees everything, and I am here for judgement, she’ll still see me coming, doesn’t matter though, I’ll still make sure she and the rest of Hell sees something unbecoming, because here, there can only be one King. This is The Kingdom of The Revenants, a singing storm in the far distance, bringing forth sand whisper drifters through my cut fingertips, in front, a slave made bone palace, still with meat beating in it, it’s almost still living; this is how the unliving lives, in the poorest conditions? Pure madness. For this revenge I don’t take a stealth approach, with incipient steps I enter the villain’s home, with fresh hope, and make myself be known, with a yell out of-
“Alrighty, you old Hag! Let us begin, and end you with a heart wrenching ending.” Spiralling circles of dark cloaking clothing, shadows seek shelter from the shriek-screaming self-loathing, in this man-actual-made, home’s entrance. “I know why you scream, I know why you hate, I know why you kill them A-L-L. I know that, this place is your cage, your torture to stay, forever and a day; I don’t feel sorry for you at all. I am here, as a deliverer, with my eyes, to my rage you gave and may have made me mutate with your lies.”
I kick my eyes on over to her, the place reeks of an open sewer, the chandelier is that of an armour of an old Roman ruler; she’s even added candles to its sprawled out bones, to rotate and ridicule for their future. Gaping claw marks where her eyes once lived, pus secreting, diamond necklace full of human hearts, the demon has her skin receding with hooks she’s pinned-back peeling, frail, weakened with her bottom lip chewed-up and eaten. She brings her screeching moans to a smoker’s wheezers groans.
Her torquated, long-waisted body, shimmies out of her dusty clothing, fixated on my rolling floor eyes and takes six paces forward, elongated her clicking fingers for them, her hands are balling, my memories calling. With an unspoken spell she slides my peepers into her broken shell, the screams return and the bells begin to drum, her head swells after she’s found out what she’s done, what does she expect? This is my Kingdom Come, welcome to Hell, you’re all welcome.
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Limbo
Black, I’ve seen a dark so black, an unhaving void, a limp-pedal-powered television so empty, this mine’s corner collapse of dirty coal so liquid thick; it’s almost liquorice; it traps and overcasts. A burned-out and brunet, when you’ve forgotten to pay on time at the end of the month, switched down, way before the Big Bang, shining the black backward in your eyes, its neon never-light, never switched on from an unsung Sun, an unlived devilun, a sky nightlight full of paranoias of tomorrow. This is the lonely world we all live in, you never know how small you have to make yourself, into tiny pieces, until you become a good son to a loving father, we still wait for our small beginnings. Different dark symphonies of brickish, spindled, and squeezed; run for cover under my soul. It’s fine; I am still in here, somewhere. Where have I gone? Trust me; it’s in here. Look, there I am, in-between the bewetted drizzled trees, is that me swinging on a swing chair? I wonder what’s wrong with me; it’s where my heart used to swing, it once was there. With my illusions shooting free. Should never have been freed, but neither should have we. ‘Between these late nights and unpunched pillow dreams, behind the terracotta, terror from the cot birth; these stones stick into me, skin-deep, chipping deep, and sometimes lives as my Hell, a little less holier than my melancholia, a wayward warrior washed ashore of a once-lived but now a more forgetful familiar murky, maleficent land, once my own honourable but deathly, horror of my inside-meandering moors.
Holding on to trauma? It’s my comfort blanket, unfun, undone, and I am back at the canvas, my mind goes the blankest, it’s my frost harness through foreign harshness, thorned cactus attacking us, are my hands cutting this? What’s happened? A lot of trauma, a pill bottle or a bottle of vodka? Fuck it, I’ll be a writer and let loose this lesser human loser in a bath of acid anger, leave him in longer, he never belonged here, he won’t be long in here, he’s not from here, but watch me drop a bomb here… I don’t care, I kind of like it. Watch me dance, step, step, strand aside from a stand, I am the keyboard, Piano Man.
Crying, tears in palms, collecting these riddles in puddles upon these tough taut, is it nature or taught? Rocked thoughts, pebbles can’t go with the flow, a blood clot since the wood cot. An army of words to arm me, purge, missing in the action, my brother, killing in his absence, my observed absurd P.T.S.D. has me attacking each of you, first chapter. I’ll be scrapping on this page, a wasted space, written by a waste of space in his wasted state, just look at his face, he red laughing, waist deep in drugs, with blood on his sleeve; forget the jury, fingers chopped and tongue should be cleaved.
In the depths of a black Limbo so profound, it swallows all light, an abyss without end. A television flickers with static, its screen a void, echoing the emptiness within. The coal miner’s collapse is not just a disaster but a descent into a viscous, tar-like darkness, suffocating and inescapable, like being trapped in a never-ending nightmare.
It’s a place where time itself seems to unravel, where even before the universe began its grand explosion, there was only this consuming darkness. Neon lights flicker, casting a sickly glow, but they never truly illuminate the desolate landscape.
In this lonely world, one shrinks into oneself, fractured into fragments just to survive. Yet even amidst the desolation, traces of humanity linger, ghostly echoes of who we once were. Is that a figure swinging on a decrepit swing, the sound of laughter twisted into a mournful wail?
Trauma becomes a twisted comfort, a security blanket woven from nightmares. The mind, once a canvas for dreams, now lies barren, frostbitten by the harshness of reality. Anger simmers beneath the surface, bubbling like acid, consuming everything in its path.
In this infernal limbo, there’s no escape from the torment of the past. Memories morph into monsters, haunting every corner of the mind. Each word becomes a weapon, each sentence a battleground where the self fights against its own demons.
The protagonist, a lost soul in this malevolent land, dances on the edge of madness. Tears mingle with blood, pooling in the palms like offerings to unseen gods. Is it nature or nurture that has brought them to this point? A question is unanswerable as the riddles that echo through the void.
Amidst the chaos, there’s a sense of resignation, a grim acceptance of their fate. They may be a writer, but in this place, even words fail to capture the true horror of their existence. They are but a wasted space, a forgotten soul in the wasteland of their own creation.
A powerful image. It matches the text. Is it AI-generated? Thanks for sharing!
[…] May 12, 2024 ~ Alexander Kennedy A Pict In Hell […]
Thank you, I love bringing people close my characters and words so people stay and live in the worlds I…
No, it an old Celtic God for life and Death and I am only using him here for Death. Thanks…
Alexander Writes 
No, everything I write comes from me, takes me a while to keep it all aligned and connected. Thank you…