An Ordinary Man

Is it pleasure, regret, anger or madness? No!
It is all about power, absolute power, corruption complete.
A guy like me with nothing, and no hope of anything in life,
has a way to be whole, respected, it is an honoured retreat.


Sat here, smoking a cigarette, as you take notes, it’s hard to see.
I look like any other Joe, worn down by this hellish city.
How does it happen? Is it a mental or chemical reaction?
Is it flukes or chances, the taking of an opportunity?


I had nothing, see, no hope, no future, no escape,
no woman, no friend, just a never-ending road of nothing.
All that changed one Friday night, that girl, I wanted her, tired
of rejection, I didn’t ask for no permission, just took her everything.


I didn’t kill that one, or the few that came after her,
it was enough to overpower them, take and just leave.
Forced through their fear to swallow my seed,
the power rush to my senses, man you would never believe.


The fear in their eyes as they pleaded, begged for life,
worthless bitches, surrendering, screaming with no pride or grace.
I was careful, sure, never giving them a sight not even
a glimpse till finally one of them whores saw my face.


I knew what I had to do, man, she had to die!
Pantyhose tourniquet twisted round her throat,
biting deep into her flesh as she gasped a final breath.
Man, there is no power like it; it’s tough not to gloat.


I relived every moment in my dreams and thoughts,
no regret, no sympathy, remorse, there was none.
Just a hunger, an aching desire, a lust for that rush.
I had found my passion, my reign in the park begun.


That first kill I played back in my mind,
a mental video tape of a murder of an upper class girl.
Sat in draughty libraries, reading of the ways of death,
finally, I found it, the method that my senses did swirl.


So at home, I crafted the fine strands of stripped leather,
a plaited garrotte that would choke out many an existence.
Easily hidden deep in my killing jacket pocket, ready
for the next worthless bitch’s offer of unwilling subsistence.


Over the next few years I fined tuned my talent for murder,
no longer disfiguring them, the effort wasted on their useless flesh.
Too much force leaves ugly deep bruises and abrasions, imperfections,
so unattractive, I wanted to be better, and make less mess.


The women were mere tools of experimentation and test,
at last, I had it perfected; each death had become a fine art.
The ligature twisted to leave a vibrant plait, a red-purple reflection,
blood vessels ruptured and occluded, faces congested beauties of red dark.


Disposal of the remains was a problem at first, the realization that
dead carcases float with the current to places unknown.
So many of them still remain as ‘missing’ on the police’s files.
Only the two found on the unhallowed river banks, so overgrown.


‘How can an ordinary man kill,’ it is frequently asked.
It is not difficult, the mind from the depravity will disconnect.
The bitches are no different to chickens, when the neck breaks,
they squawk pathetically, just the same, giving nothing to respect.


Guilt or shame! Why should I feel either emotion?
I did my thing then headed home, maybe a hearty meal.
I feel pride in my skill, the satisfaction when it went well,
but most of all, the sense of power, is the thing I most feel.


So the suckers condemned me and sent me to hang,
remember this as you debate, discuss and sit smug.
For all the plain guys you use, abuse and ignore each day,
I stood up and counted, I am no one’s menial slug.


Guilt if there has to be any lies with you, friend, and society,
for compliance to a system built on greed and deviance.
Don’t think you can walk on a guy just like me,
we will give pay back when we are given the chance.


Martyr me to the hangman’s noose, as is your will,
it will not change a god damn thing, there is no hope.
Take me out! I go to those gallows with no shame,
whilst you live on, never satisfied, battling to cope.


Hanged by the neck till dead I will be content with that,
it does seem fitting, almost an honorary celebration.
Lethal injection or electrocution would just be an insult,
to a celebrated master of the fine art of strangulation.


Reaching for my smokes, I watch you flinch and draw back,
a fear reaction, friend? I can’t help but give you a smile.
A brief spark of a reminder of my power now past,
I am shackled and impotent as writer, my story, you compile.

© Jem Farmer 2008, all rights reserved.