Execution of Ted Bundy

Ted Bundy was a serial killer in the 1970's. Handsome, devious and utterly without conscience.

You met your death as

enemy: viciously,

sideways, twisting,

seared by the heat of its approach.

 

You turned and turned again

as death boiled up, sandstorm to

cover you in

its relentless dust.

 

Trapped by whirlwinds you

could not charm, poison locked in your

clenched mind, you slid

purposefully away.

 

You could not know your

camoflage was gone, you would at last

be forced to stop within

the desert's glaring peace.

 

We killed you like the rattler

at our door and sighed, oh yes,

we sighed relief at your

empty patterned skin.

 

Were you always empty? Did

your obsidian eyes conceal

true mystery or just

unthinking, ancient night?

 

Reviews

[Creepy Swine Guy]

Interesting write. I think there is more there though. I think that when we kill the Bundys or Ridgeways of the world, the world watches. The world is disturbed at our own morbid fascination with these walking black holes of humanity. We know that this fascination signals the existance of something dark deep within the crawlspaces of our own souls. We sigh in relief because we think that in dispatching the monsters, we beat back the monsters within.

I found your poem fascinating, but would have enjoyed seeing a stanza that referenced the evil within us all. Still, I rate it highly

[Don Lund]

Creepy and cold, like the subject matter! I sighed the sigh and often wondered the same about 'true mystery' v. 'unthinking, ancient night'. Powerful poem in my humble estimation.

[HoorayForUnderdog]

That whole business was just too creepy. Great poem, Holly.

[HeyMisterBlue]

great poem! I don't know for sure but weren't Bundy's eyes blue?
People kill for strange reasons, Bundy for pleasure,
soldiers like me, for war, (oil and profit in reality) but one thing is certain, people kill, have killed, will kill... it is the nature of humankind, to destroy and burn what they hate, covet, or love. Meanwhile, the rich get richer and the poor suffer evermore heinous fates.

[DevilsNeedLove2]

This poem beautifully describes the very reasons I find serial killers to be so morbidly fascinating. I vaguely remember watching the news and seeing the crowds cheering when they announced his death, as I was just a little girl. For that reason, the fifth stanza was particularly powerful for me.

There wasn't anything about this that I didn't like. I have no suggestions, and can only say, "Wow."

[W.k.kortas]

If I remember, didn't Ted's artwork fetch a pretty penny? Mature, well-constructed look at the man; it's neither shreiking rant, nor revisionist sympathetic history. Well-controlled, spot-on in tone.

[Damian Alan Gray]

Were you always empty? Did
your obsidian eyes conceal
true mystery or just
unthinking, ancient night?

Excellent prose. Unfortunate that we will never know the answers to these questions. For all the monster he was, he was certainly fodder for dark imaginings.

[{Angel Redd}[Formerly A..]

Were you always empty? Did

your obsidian eyes conceal

true mystery or just

unthinking, ancient night?

Such a great line; it's chilling because it's a question many of us don't think about it. Great piece!

[Legion]

I'm going with "unthinking, ancient night". What a diabolical man he was. A great write here about the finality of someone who provided the finality of others. Brilliant.