Torniquet --- Dark Fantasy

The stealth winged creeper roams the night,
these missions of death, are acts of trade,
unseen footsteps, the victim's plight,
his twisted death , a score betrayed.

His twisted death, a score betrayed,
a vengeful crime before his time,
my battle cry in spite's crusade
he's left in slime at midnight chime.

He's left in slime at midnight chime,
a trademark wire that braids his neck
a piece of grime not worth the dime
I left my stamp, a warning check.

I left my stamp, a warning check,
the world will know he lived of sin
his life the price, I broke his neck,
I am the silent assassin.


© Jem Farmer 2008, 2009 all rights reserved.

Death of Tears --- Loose Sapphic

Death of Tears

Unfettered passions congeal with confusion
each night as in darkness, my mind's journey roams
depths of desire, deviant and untrusting
leaving me despair.

Twisting tourniquets ever-tightening grip
as urges of fantasy relieve torment
in tranquil pools of obsession, life falters
yet intensely grows.

Weeping rivers cast onto downy cushions
meet their demise in sonant voiced billowed plumes
that cosset my fatigued head with caresses
of indulgent dreams.

JF March 16, 2009

© Jem Farmer 2008, all rights reserved.

End of Twilight

Beyond the horizon the sun lies fallen
and stars have yet to show in glorious light;
The night's darkest hour has come with hidden sighs
of silent vampires.

The scent of flesh stalks the land with evil minds;
malign intentions hunting innocent blood
The living dead of noble descent feeding
on a virgin's vein.

Demonic caress leaves a sorrowful soul;
to mourn a passing dream of desire's touch;
Unholy spirit with a satanic heart;
Incubi by name.

Ever youthful, immortal with godless smiles,
bring ceaseless nightmares with a cold deathly touch
Resides in everlasting Cimmerian realm;
at End of Twilight.


© Jem Farmer 2008, all rights reserved.

Hell's Kitchen

In the kitchens of hell the oven hid,
Trembling with fear from the glowing furnace.
Anger and rage were brewing under war's lid
A storm stewing in the depths of darkness.

Sins so deadly combine inside the fire,
Avarice and envy sparing in flame.
Lust in confusion of a love's desire
Fingers pointing with no-one left to blame.

Over-indulgence pitted with hunger
Whilst fools laze in the comfort of false pride.
A world of vice left to the fear monger
And those with no care along for the ride.

Look beneath with thought pry under hell's lid
And see for your eyes why the oven hid.

© Jem Farmer 2008, all rights reserved.

Shadows of Existence

I dwell in the shadows of existence
Neither living nor dead I be.
The pulse of a heart in resistance
Kept on a brink of sanity.

As I look down into madness
And certain loss of life
The tears that flow with sadness
Cut like a pointless knife.

I yearn to fall into the dark deep
Let go of this dull enigma.
Leave the traces that have made me weep
Lose a label's hopeless stigma.

The razor blade cuts like ice
The veins seep a dark red
This time I did not think twice
I belong with the dead.

© Jem Farmer 2008, all rights reserved.

Dead Ends

The walls of thought are closing in my mind
There is no doorway out that I can find
I'm sealed in confusion like a trapped rat
No light to see as in darkness I'm sat
A dream of freedom brings a false message
I seek the answers, there is no passage
I cry in grief, then in frustration, shout
'Hide! Suicide is the only way out!'

© Jem Farmer 2008, all rights reserved.

Artwork by unknown

Storm of Death

The air tastes fresh and clean after the storm
With skies still violent red in nature’s rage.
As clouds gather into a thunderous swarm
We rush to seek shelter from the carnage.

Who sees the butterfly, she’s lost alone,
A flutter of wings as rain starts once more.
She is battered by speed of the cyclone
Crushed, she falls down, dazed, helpless on the floor.

Flashes of blue, death comes in lightning’s strike
A soul claimed that instant by reaper’s hand.
A mere morsel speared upon icy spike
Did she see the vision of ethereal land?

© Jem Farmer 2008, all rights reserved.

Crying From Behind the Wall

Can you see a wall in front of me?
That holds me tight never to be free.
A world in seclusion
It is no illusion
That wall will remain inside of me.

No bricks just pain and torture inside
In this dark place, I have to reside.
No freedom, no release
It will never decrease.
Ripped in half, sanity is denied.

Fear of happiness being a sign
That my mind is about to decline
To pits of regression
That is my depression
Often of life, I want to resign.

Bi polar the label, marks my soul
It’s only the drugs that make me whole
Lithium the answer
Like morphine to cancer
It is just a way of pain control.

Release me from this hell, let me fall
I’m tired of my life behind this wall
Always lost and alone
All my dreams come undone
One day I will be free of it all.

© Jem Farmer 2008, all rights reserved.

For the Love of a Vampire

In love I lose myself to Echo beach
The moon now sits within my needing reach.
The days pass too slowly ‘til I can return
To his arms so that our passion can burn.

A kiss lingers sweeping me from my feet
Left in daylight’s darkness until we meet.
Ignite the flame for his tender lips’ bite
A little of my blood makes him feel right.

Limbs twist to his demand to meet his need
Dazed in his love as he takes nightly feed.
Flight to the clouds, with his love I am free
A life immortal as fate said would be.

The love of a vampire carries no end
As Incubus and Succubus ascend.

© Jem Farmer 2008, all rights reserved.

In the Quatrains of Death

Death is here and Death is with me,
Dark angel I alone can see
She surrounds, inside, below,
She is Death and I shall go.

Death has her hand upon my skin,
On all I am in my own sin.
This I know and this I feel,
Death my lady - you are real.

First, my desires pass to her hand,
My dreams, my tears, just grains of sand,
They are dead, my time is due
So alone I perish too.

The things I love and hold so dear
Will die with me and pass from fear
Life is harsh all things must rot
Love is death, or is it not?

© Jem Farmer 2008, all rights reserved.

The Cursed Soul

On blackened wing he hovers in sorrows,
He’s caught in fusion of the endless night.
Her curse to leave his heart in field’s furrows,
Alone, despair the only thing in sight.

She stole his soul to feed her own desire,
The lies of love were nothing, empty dreams.
He drowns in rejection, burned by her fire,
The grief the truth that fill his haunting screams.

The pain will scar, no longer a free man,
The past twisted to create the demon.

© Jem Farmer 2008, all rights reserved.

Cry in the Dark

Angel by my side,
without you so lost.
Will this hurt never end?

Despair and uselessness,
without you I am nothing
no desire to exist alone.

Angel I need you
tears solve nothing
yet still I am weeping.

My darling sweet angel
the light in my darkness
I am empty inside.

The world was bright
suddenly the blackness
please burn for me again!

Fight with me baby
give me a reason
to dream, to hope.

I miss you my angel
a futile cry into the dark
I'm alone, none replies.

© Jem Farmer 2008, all rights reserved.

Retribution

No forgiveness

or mercy.

Judged, condemned,

eternal retribution.

Drowning in my own depravity.

© Jem Farmer 2008, all rights reserved.

The Poison Rose

The symbol of your love, deepest red.
Forever etched in the rhythm of my heart.
A pulsating stigmata, a constant reminder,
burning my senses now that we are apart.

'It is better to have loved and lost', they say.
Do they know how you penetrated my core?
Making me a some one not just a nothing,
only to be left bleeding from every pore.

The rose now a symbol of sheer poison,
deepest red turning to shades of blue.
Like me no longer perfect or whole,
but acidicly twisted by the loss of you.

Senses are shrivelling in unchartered directions,
acrid emotions claiming possession of my soul.
Lost in confusion, drowning in love's memories,
don't offer sympathy, I am impossible to console.

The entity of black darkness is the rose,
surrounding my being, bitterness pierces me.
The rose is love turned to ravaging hatred,
the poison within thorns set my demon free.

© Jem Farmer 2008, all rights reserved.

The First Time

Like sex, I will always remember my first kill,
images flash to mind, the hunt, the blade, the thrill.
The addiction started, always I hunger for more,
lust for the surrender, as lifeless bodies fall to the floor.

That first time, unskilled, without talent or finesse.
Mistakes many, now perfected to a murderous tempest.
Techniques of torture, honed to perfection for pleasure,
slow and relentless, releasing them from the hell at leisure.

Blood-crazed and psychotic, a death loving demon,
capturing you, entrapped in your need to release semen.
After its spilt, unwanted seed, I can come alive,
my turn has come, on your demise I will thrive.

Your screams feed me, sating my sadistic need,
but only the finality of your death will fill my greed.
One day my reign of terror will end, it's a sure bet,
To be continued, don't sleep, they have not caught me yet.

© Jem Farmer 2008, all rights reserved.

At the Deep End of the Ocean

At the deep end of the ocean,
Where the golden haired mermaids dwell
Waiting for ships on the tides motion
And the sea’s swell.

Their voices sing over the waves
Carried by the breeze to the ear.
As each one of them swims and bathes
What is to fear?

Enchanted they go to the tune,
Sailors follow with captured heart
To the sirens who sit and croon
Music their art.

Like a baited trap, it is sprung
As rats to the pied piper’s flute
Led by the music that they sung
Played like a lute.

These sirens are luring them in.
Once caught there is no freedom left.
Like flies on web by spider spun
It is soul theft.

Vampyric mermaids suck you dry,
Snaring the mind with music sweet.
Stolen spirits are left to die
They have their meat.

At the deep end of the blue sea
Death waits for all that fall in trance.
Ignore the sirens, set sail and flee
Avoid their dance.

© Jem Farmer 2008, all rights reserved.

He Came

He came to the dark shores that night,
A hero to be on his quest.
A mere boy is he, no brave knight
To do his best.

The tales of old, the only clue,
To the task he has set upon.
This is something he has to do.
Stories undone.

Sat on the pebbles, there he waits,
For a sign of that certain ship.
To travel the mystery straits,
A worthy trip.

Tall is he and full of brave will,
On a journey into despair,
Against the ocean’s endless chill
A fool’s affair?

What makes Philip, such a young lad,
Take up an impossible ask?
Duty, maybe he is quite mad?
Is it a mask?

No turning back his ship has come,
With his knapsack he steps on board.
The adventure has now begun
Cross the seas broad.

© Jem Farmer 2008, all rights reserved.

Sapphic Sirens

Legends tell tales from the past,
Of oceans deep that secrets keep.
Enigmas of the ancients’ cast.
Why does she weep?

It’s at the fall of dusk to night,
The maidens of the sea come sing.
Radiant pale in the moon’s light
Their voices ring.

Their songs work magic on the mind
Enchanting those that lend their ears.
The quest, those sweet beauties to find
And spare her tears.

Be warned! They are not such a dream
Danger lurks beneath ladies fair.
Beauty is not all it would seem.
Brave heart takes care.

Journey starts at the island’s stone shore
Await the ship with the golden mast.
Take safe passage and nothing more,
Cross oceans vast.

Sail the sea to the west, it’s said,
To the lands of the Elfin King.
Succeed so his daughter may wed,
Search for the ring.

Then onwards to the rising sun
To the secret isle where they sing.
Golden hair sways, with the night fun
That moonlight bring.

© Jem Farmer 2008, all rights reserved.

Spiralling Dreams

Images

colliding,

twisting,

turning.

Mentality

shredding,

failing,

falling.

Thoughts

escape,

there is none.

Nightmares the haunting reality.

© Jem Farmer 2008, all rights reserved.

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.