Riding The River Rapids Of Madness

A dark journey into the culmination of a man's life devoted to existince as a serial killer; the incentive's muse having left him, & that magic of hearing each body go thud in it's hole is no more.

Riding The River Rapids Of Madness

Written By Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn de Graham

Copyright © 2014 Marvin Thomas Cox

DBA: Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn de Graham

All Rights Reserved

Rivers of sweetest madness coursed rampantly through my mind

-- sanity a word torn from the pages of a cover-less old dictionary --

as drooling gibberish sprinkled the lips of my ever wagging tongue

for thoughts slipping in and out of reality as paranoia lights the way.

My twitching body lovingly awaits Rigor Mortis upon the floor,

as blood slows its spurting from the wound so gushingly gaping,

'til that soft exhaling sigh lowers my chest in emptying the lungs --

old memories play on as reruns behind dulled dilated pupil eyes.

Clenched fingers fall open in releasing death's grip upon the gun,

as rivulets of blood curiously explore crevices in the wood floor,

the house now so quiet but for the ticking of a clock on the wall --

a final curtain of darkness falling upon memory theater's reruns.

An inquisitive fly dutifully visits a lonely man in death's solitude,

depositing eggs soon to bring hungry maggot friends to the feast

of the rancid fallen who dare to ride the river rapids of madness --

leaving but scattered bones gnawed by rats in the months to come ...

(Written March 18^th, 2014)

Author's Note

This piece of Dark Poetry was written expressly via/for the Muse's inspiration derived from my independently, interconnected, dark story collection book, titled, When Nightmares Rule & Death Prevails — & Other Riveting Tales Of Death, Life, & Religion ...

Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn de Graham

Reviews

[Bhuyanshi Talukdar]

Your poem is quite intense and explores the darker side of the human experience. The use of vivid imagery and metaphor is particularly effective in conveying the emotions and themes of the poem. The final lines of the poem are particularly striking, with the speaker expressing a sense of despair and hopelessness in the face of death and decay. Overall, your writing is a powerful and evocative exploration of the human heart and the complexities of life and death. Well done!

[Matthew Kult]

Darkly disturbing, the sweet suffering ended so quickly only to become vermin food. Great write.

With love,

Matthew

[Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn de Graham]

Matthew,

Thank you for stopping by, as this is but one of my Dark Poems well suited for those who do love Darkly Morbid Poetry, and/or that upcoming night of Halloween ...

As for a bit of informative info as to the truest intent of motive in writing this Dark Poem, you might take a look at my comment reply to Jacob Erin-Cilberto (a fantastic Poet here on WC among the very so many great writers), but one must click on read more to do so, if it should be that one wonders why and how a serial killer with a perfect-uncaught-record would arrive at a decision to end his own ... The truth may well surprise you ...

Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn de Graham

[Relic]

Serial killers work by compulsion and can't stop themselves. This one really gets into the mind of a victim in the hashest way. And yet, the killer creates the worst case scenario. This is a compelling poem, Marvin...and scary.

[Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn de Graham]

Thanks, Relic!

[jacob erin-cilberto]

everything loses its luster sooner or later----
the serial killer's mind works in mysterious ways...
and the last murder, his own.
Madness ending up in scattered bones...
the feast for maggots...the happy maggots.
I was a witness in a trial for a serial killer...it was a strange experience.
this is really intense.
j.

[Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn de Graham]

Thanks for reading Jacob

[Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn de Graham]

Jacob, my friend, in re-featuring this poem in a last ditch attempt to glean reads before or by Halloween, I also re-savored your insightful words in comment upon this most dark and morbid piece of my Dark Poetry … The tale behind this Poem of a Tale?

It begins with my WC spiel set forth as an hors d'oeuvre's scent of darkness full well intended to lure prospective readers into the lair's dark world of my truly darkest writing that was written during that darkest, most frightful, time of night, When Nightmares Rule:

“A dark journey into the culmination of a man's life devoted to existence as a serial killer; the incentive's muse having left him, & that magic of hearing each body go thud in it's hole is no more.”

In reaching the last line, the reader, taken hostage within my darkness of that which has been written and now read, is left (abandoned?) to his own thoughts as to the why would any guy, as an apparent successful serial killer — undefeated, and never caught, regardless of that which Law-enforcement may have suspected or thought — end his own life at the end of an unblemished (except in bloodiest butchery's heinous loss of innocent murdered lives), unscathed career of all wins and zero losses (cost of a human life left unconsidered) that, at the end, stood as a perfect record? A reader might just speculative that the murderous man had every thing to live for. So why?

I was a research writer before I undertook to begin shaping and forming that which became my Dark Story series. Before beginning, I delved into research on serial killers, how they begin, what makes them tick, how they thing, and so on. First thing I learned to my own surprise: The average serial killer begins shaping the beginning of his career by unwittingly self-training himself to feel no remorse for that which he shall do, by savoring and enjoying the cruel torturing and murdering of poor and helpless animals, as a proving ground for that which is to one day come in moving up to that subconsciously sought after notch of his very first human victim.

What's more of worse than that? They tend to enjoy teasing the Law in risky behavior of actually hanging around crime scenes as the Cops and victims loved ones attempt to digest and discern that which has taken place and why, while he savors the thrill of standing next to the very firestorm of suffering and misery that he, himself, as created as a virtual god of death.

What could be worse, even, than that which I have just shared, as information that I gleaned from my own research? The sorry m***********s, often, actually will attend the funerals of the poor and helpless victims which has slaughtered (many times in unspeakable, ghastly ways); express his condolences to the victims friends, family, and loved ones; even endeavor to befriend a select few of them to befriend, in order to savor their mental and emotion pain even further, after the interment of those whom have been taken from their lives, forever.

Ever heard the saying, “If it don't stink, don't stir it?” … These a******s love to stir and refresh the mental and emotional pain within those left behind to suffer in the wake of what he may consider as Art. Finding seemingly innocent ways to pull the scabs off wounds beginning to heal. Or, poke a thoughtlessly spoken statement (not thoughtless at all but intentional) as a stick digging ever further into an ever festering wound that shall never heal. Eventually those befriended and living victims wise up and cut the cord of separation from folks that they have always sensed were a bit strange, but just could not quite put a finger on what was, except that they always found a way to makes things worse, more painful, ever lingering, and not helpful of any better at all.

What could be worse that all of which I have shared with you (and those folks who are comment readers, too?)? Here 'ti's: The pieces of S**t are trophy hunters (most with a given as set methodology of seeking out and murdering their victims that serves as a defined modus-operandi): They, often, seek after something to take from their victims (via body parts or possessions) to remember their f*****g kill by, as a sort of memento of a job they consider as well done.

Lastly. Ever see that movie, Catch Me If You Can? Yep, you got it: The Sons of B*****s live for the thrill of the chase by the Cops, love watching the Cops work a case which they, themselves, created the need for in the first place, and sometimes they may even undertake to hang around the Cops, befrienda few of them, and, on occasion, curiously inquire as to how the investigation is going, while they drop subtle hints regarding the case (or sought after perp), in steering the Cops almost near to close enough to savor the thrill of having them catch him, while actually subliminally attempting to lead them away like yoyos on a puppet's string that he seeks to dangle as possible leads before them, in flaunting his arrogance (of not really ever expecting to be caught, though he knows that one day he will) right in the Cop's faces, and them totally unawares of catching on in such a fashion that serves as a risky behavior's ever renewing thrill, at least until the case goes cold, and leaves him as a talented Chess Player (some maybe even real life's champion Chess Players?) with no one left to demonstrate his prowess to. And then, 'ti's time to be off and kill again, in order to keep the insatiable addition for thrills and chills going on in a seemingly unending cycle of murdered, butchered, and slain victims.

So, what's up with my fictitious serial killer guy above? The f****r was just too damn good at the game, because some such serial killers actually want to be caught and stopped in eventuality, but they just can't help but doing what they do, do, best: Murder, and begin another round (like a Gambling Addiction) of playing the game, on and on, and on.

And so, in the cold case above, that one above who never got caught, per se, the late B.B. King said best in his song, The Thrill Is Gone. Thus, the man above has, duly, defeated himself within his own, thought to be, ingeniousness of slyness, cunning, craftiness, deceitfulness, and murderous mind. He thinks, he reasons, he feels that there is no left left to best, because he is the best at what he does, and being King of The Mountain just ain't what he thought it would be, when he got there, mainly, because he never truly expected that he would. Like a needle enslaved junkie, the pain inflicted upon his victims that once brought him such exquisite pleasure, over time, served to dull his senses, evade his pleasure centers, and leaving his latest conquest as ever less that next thrill he thought to expect it to be in acquiring that next fix that would set him right of back on his game again, and back into that game he loved to play so much, in always seeking to win, knowing, full well, that losing is always the flip side in every coin toss of hoping to win.

In conclusion of this explanatory comment reply: I do not, have never, advocated suicide, but, here within this Dark Poem, I have chosen to make an exception. Why? Because there are serial killers (out there in that somewhere of someplace of right in all our faces as hidden in plainest sight, but unseen and undetected) who remained uncaught, and always shall remain uncaught. And to these champion Chess Players who slave their victims as mere pawns, I have offered them a final thrill to be obtained in retiring and getting out of the game as murdering winners, at the last, become ultimate losers. So, to them, I do, sincerely, suggest: Got for it!

Within my Dark Tales and Dark Poetry, I paint serial killers as they are. And, they ain't nice guys!

Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn de Graham