future perfect imploding stars

August 2008, on death and sanity and Talenkynic

i write about death dying and murder all the time, my nickname is slasher suzie among my writer type pals.

knowing i have always had the capicity for such a violent act, going back to the zylmor wars but on earth my world has been around peaceful movements, not rocking the boat and going with the flow, allowing violence to happen to me and those closest to me but without raising even a whimper of dissent. this has changed and i am finding little solace in my zylmor past. things i have not done for an age are becoming increasingly enticing.

i find myself in contemplative mood, haven't spoken to a single person in four days the tenous hold on my sanity is again ebbing away to the dark deep recesses i last experienced more than ten years ago.

some thirty years ago i was on the peripherary of a drug fuelled chaos that maintained itself in the house i resided. being younger than most involved i could have joined in but some hold kept me out, so i could record the bad trips, the fabulously outrageous voyages that those around me travelled on. now i wish for some oblivion, some unfeeling unseen calm that those in euphoria sensed, they say H is better than sex, but what is better than life. some of those that were there found out, blind pete who sold his sax for one more hit, angelina who chased her own demons across continents and now rests in peace.

others like ruth and simon survived in unique ways and neither remember the nights in fields above the village hounded by wolves snakes and spiders, revolving around space invaders playing kiss and tell with moon....but I remember and write.

Hanging By A Thread

Margaret Reidy, a murderess of some repute
Resided in an ordinary terrace
Red velvet curtains façaded the blood
Cement and brick hid bone and hair

Margaret O Margaret what were you thinking
Allowing the coppers to search your home
Were you so conceited, so full of glee
That stupid men would not have a clue

You should’ve asked a design guy
They would’ve been able to advise
Red velvet is super with purple brocade
But with pale blue calico – quelle horreur!

It was just your bad luck that day
Sergeant Briar an aficionado of design
Having a secret life as Lily O’Brien
With red velvet his favourite frock style

Background

29th August 1948 The body of local eccentric Nancy Ellen Chadwick was found in the street outside Margaret Allen's house.

Nancy Chadwick was an elderly widow known to be a little eccentric.

Margaret Allen was a 42 year old lesbian, her mother had died in 1943 and she had not taken it well.

In 1945 she received medical treatment for attacks of dizziness and she became depressed.

On investigation the police discovered blood stains on the wall inside the front door of Allen's house. When asked by the police why she had murdered she replied, I was In one of me funny moods and the old woman got on me nerves. Had she not made this statement she may have been able to plead insanity which was almost certainly the case. Her defence failed and she was hanged.

The murder weapon was a hammer which Allen had used to batter the 68 year old to death, raining blows to the head. At her trial she was dressed in men's clothing. The trial took only five hours and the jury reached their verdict in only 15 minutes. Although a petition was raised to try and save her only 162 signatures were collected.

12th January 1949, Margaret Allen was hanged at Strangeways prison by executioner Albert Pierrepoint.

Day One Routine

It was a routine operation, so they said and then followed it by lots of legalise but the bottom line is, the peaks in my life are gone. The things I considered routine all disappeared with the cut of the surgeon's knife. Waking up with the musky aroma of my husband next to me, taking up too much space, snoring quietly. I would then nudge him gently and he would wake too. We would talk about our day ahead, argue about who was going to dip their toes into the cold air first, who's turn it was for breakfast. I usually won and I would sink back into the pillows listening to him pad down the hallway to the kitchen. The tinny sounds of spoons on cups would be replaced by clatters as bowls and plates were brought forth, all our crockery had chips in from Séan's hamfistedness. I loved him for it. Each time I went to find a pair of tweezers that were buckled out of shape, forks and knives used as screwdrivers, screwdrivers used as hammers. For the twenty five years we have been married I have mended or replaced all the tools over and over again. I bought some pink secateurs so he wouldn't use them but eventually I found them with gouges out of the blades - they had been used for cutting wire. And the wire cutters, well they had been used to hold the aerial in place at the back of the television and are probably still there. Séan would sometimes come down and drag me out of bed, if I had a vital meeting but usually he would bring breakfast down to the bedroom and we would perch on the bed eating our porridge and chat some more, shall we paint the hallway, bottom the front room, when was the nurseryman coming with the trees, did the dog take his worming tablet. The usual, the routine, the monotonous. But I wouldn't have had it any other way, after those minutes together first thing, on our own the world invaded kids jumping all over us, jobs to go to, luches to prepare, meetings to pitch, soccer training, friends to visit, neighbours to check on, families to ring. That reminds me I must ring Séan's mother she will be devastated, her first born, her eldest son, gone at only forty seven, what's routine about that. THe doctor has returned and is giving me more information but still reiterating that it was a routine operation. I have a sarcastic retort that for now is being held in but I swear if he says routine one more time. Séan would've stopped me, I would give him my acid retorts, the ones I would say if I had more gumption or less sensitivity. He held me in check. He held me. Oh Séan why did they have to mess up your routine operation. Why are you dead? I need you to help me organise your funeral, I need you to tell your mother. I need your arms around me when I tell the children. I need you. Nothing will ever be mundane again, no comforting cooking together you chopping while I stir. Everyone said we were two halves of the same coin, well I feel half a person, we slotted together so well. I loved our boring, routine wishy washy life and now I am going to have to do it by myself. When we said till death do us part I thought it would be when we both had plastic hips and knees and hearing aids, I thought it would be forty years from now. Did you know how much I loved our humdrum existence, we could chat for hours about nothing, we laughed together, we cried together, you laughed when I cried at movies and I laughed when you cried at reality shows on t.v. The doctor arrives again to explain the procedure for your body and again he starts with the it was a routine operation and I am sorry Séan, I know he is only human but I reply "routine? so all your patients die?" and I walked out to the car and bawled.

more Zylmor

i write about death dying and murder all the time, my nickname is slasher suzie among my writer type pals.
knowing i have always had the capicity for such a violent act, going back to the zylmor wars but on earth my world has been around peaceful movements, not rocking the boat and going with the flow, allowing violence to happen to me and those closest to me but without raising even a whimper of dissent. this has changed and i am finding little solace in my zylmor past. things i have not done for an age are becoming increasingly enticing.
i find myself in contemplative mood, haven't spoken to a single person in four days the tenous hold on my sanity is again ebbing away to the dark deep recesses i last experienced more than ten years ago.
some thirty years ago i was on the peripherary of a drug fuelled chaos that maintained itself in the house i resided. being younger than most involved i could have joined in but some hold kept me out, so i could record the bad trips, the fabulously outrageous voyages that those around me travelled on. now i wish for some oblivion, some unfeeling unseen calm that those in euphoria sensed, they say H is better than sex, but what is better than life. some of those that were there found out, blind pete who sold his sax for one more hit, angelina who chased her own demons across continents and now rests in peace.
others like ruth and simon survived in unique ways and neither remember the nights in fields above the village hounded by wolves snakes and spiders, revolving around space invaders playing kiss and tell with moon....