Lady Xanax

The Thoughts, Musings, Work, and Ramblin
Ad 0:
Digital Ocean
Providing developers and businesses with a reliable, easy-to-use cloud computing platform of virtual servers (Droplets), object storage ( Spaces), and more.
2002-10-22 01:21:56 (UTC)

John Waters and All Things Shocking

Hello kiddies! Long time since you've seen your old friend
Lady Xanax eh? Well, I'm not too sure about what I want to
say just yet, so here are some things I've been working on.

Breaking the Cycle

“I liked to take small lives at first. Cats, rats
from the sewers, spiders, birds, the
occasional bat that I would chance to catch in the night. I
needed lives, the lives of the
living to satisfy my cravings. I wanted them to become a
part of me. I did not eat them,
drink their blood. I simply enjoyed the killing; the taking
of life for the sheer pleasure of
killing. I gave me joy. And I loved what I killed.
Then one day the small lives ceased to be enough.
So I began to take the small
children who lived in the streets, the ones with out
mothers, fathers, the little ones who
sold whatever they could including themselves to survive.
The little girls and boys who
were the lovers of London’s aristocracy. Albert’s children.
When I came upon one I would invite them to come
with me, come up to my
apartment. I promised them whatever they wanted. I fed
them, the beautiful little ones,
then bathed them in my porcelain lion’s paw bath tub. The
beautiful little boys and girls.
They were not afraid of me, the were grateful that I was
not just another man who wanted
a good fuck. I placed them in my bed, and there we made
love, or, at least I did. I knew
that these beautiful ones did not love me.
All I ever wanted was for them to love me. They
were grateful, but they did not
love me. So, I killed. Not in a cruel, terrifying way, but
in a way that was gentle and
painless and peaceful. Is it not better to die peacefully
at the hands of a loving murderer
than to live out your days as a whore of the streets of
London to die violently at the hands
of a drunken monster or as the result of a disease? Yes,
perhaps I am a monster, but a
beautiful monster. A monster who loves, who cares. It was
no longer about the killing.
I know you are now wondering what became of the
bodies, correct? One always
hates to cast away that which one loves, that which is
beautiful. One would much prefer
to surround oneself with such things. There for, I did.
There was an extra room in my
apartment where I kept the bodies. I sat them in chairs,
behind the piano, on couches, in
the bed, all in the best clothes I could buy to place them
in.
There I left them to do as nature would have them.
do. Even in death were they
beautiful as they sat there rotting, their creamy flesh
turning to the color of molding
bread, their bodies shriveling, and decaying. But they were
mine. They were my children,
saved from the horrors of the streets of London. And I
loved them, which was more than
anyone else could say. No one cared what became of them.
There were never any
headlines in the papers, no one came looking. I was all
they had.
Sometimes they would speak to me, their decomposing
mouths moving and their
empty, dead eyes looking into mine. My favorite was
Constance, a little Irish beauty
whose milky skin had long ago lost its youth and color,
her bright red hair a startling
contrast against her decaying form. She was happy that I
had taken her life. She was 13
years old and had been a child of the streets since she was
seven, her first rape coming
from her father. Then he sent his little one out into the
streets to sell herself in order to
support his habits of alcohol and opium.
When she was nine, she simply stopped coming home.
What was home anyway?
A bar, and opium den, a brothel, hell. She still continued
to sell herself, how else could
she survive? She had been beaten, raped and nearly killed
all of her life. By ending her
life, she felt that I had freed her of the vicious cycle.
And she loved me for it. In death,
they all loved me. They loved me with a love more pure than
they could have ever
mustered in life.
How can you say that I was merciless, then? I did
it without pain or terror. I set
them free of the cycle. And I loved them. I broke the cycle
and I loved them.”
“Mr. Winston, though you believe that you motives
were just, your mind is
clouded by insanity.” replied the Chief Constable who had
been listening quietly and
patiently. “You do understand that what you did was none
the less wrong and we shall
have to lock you up and throw away the key?”
The insanity and despair was rising in Mr.
Winston’s burning brown eyes. “You
don’t understand!” he cried with a passion so great that
his face became flushed and tears
came to his eyes. “You were what I saved them from! You and
the vermin you dare to
call police! I know about you, Chief Constable. I know that
you like little girls and boys
from the corners. You threatened them with prison if they
did not do as you wanted. You
beat them. You raped little girls of three or less,
practically robbing them from their
mother’s arms. Little boys were killed in bed by your
police men, their tender bodies
mutilated by the brutal rapes; their shrieks could be heard
all over town, and still nothing
was done. I saved these children form monsters like you.”
Sobbing he babbled
incoherently “They were my children! I loved them! I loved
them! They loved me and I
loved them!”
“How dare you make such accusations!” the Chief
Constable roared. The dead do
not love, they do not speak, and you are insane.” he then
replied coolly, while rising for
the table and picking up his bowler.
At home that evening, the Chief Constable went to
bed secure in the knowledge
that Mr. Winston was in the sanitarium wearing a straight
jacket. Still, he wondered how
this lunatic had know about his dark offenses. As he rolled
over and went to sleep he
muttered to himself, “They must have told him before . .
. the dead don’t speak.”
Then, down stairs he heard a “Knock-knock” knocking
at the door.
“I will not answer it. They will call again
tomorrow.” he mumbled.
Then, he heard “Thump-thump” thumping up the stairs.
“Perhaps it is the chamber maid late to bed.” he
said now fully awake and
terrified.
Then, the door burst open and in came a group of
cherub like green, decaying,
corpses. Their eyes were utterly lifeless and they were
terrible to look upon.


“You will now pay.” droned the fiery haired cadaver
in front. “How dare you
imprison the one who broke the cycle of our misery, who
spared us the pain in our lives.
How dare you of all people, who have raped, mutilated and
murdered so many of us like
a monster in the night?” she said in a voice so mournful
that it could bring tears to the
eyes of The Son of Morning himself.
“I’m sorry,” sobbed the Chief Constable. Before the
he had time to say anything
more, Constance struck him so hard that his head flew off
of his shoulders and out the
window into the street.
“Not as sorry as those who lie dead at your hands.”

Split Personality

“Charles, you don’t understand,” said Virginia. “He
is stalking me I tell you. I saw
him again last night on the street out side my window. He
was staring up at me. I could
feel his eyes on me. He was looking at me like a piece of
meat, his black cape billowing
in the wind, dressed entirely in black from head to toe,
his top hat cocked to the side and
the light from the street lamp reflecting off of his dark
glasses. He stood there for a
moment and then turned and walked away. At night it feels
like everywhere I turn, he is
there, staring at me.”
“I t is probably only coincidence.” replied
Charles. “It is possible that he travels in
the same circles as you. That would be why he is everywhere
you are at night. I’m sure
it’s nothing. Perhaps he saw you at the opera or something
and fell madly in love.”
concluded Charles in a light, joking tone. “Hardly at
threat in any case.”
“I’m frightened Charles.” Virginia said in a very
serious whisper. “I am afraid to
go out at night for fear of him. I don’t know why, but I
feel that he is . . . evil.”
“For goodness’ sake!” he cried agitated! “Evil!
How can you say that the man is
evil? You’ve never met him! You don’t know his name. You
are regarding him as if he
were Count Dracula himself.”
“Precisely. Everyone has seen him at night, but he
never speaks. No one knows
who he is or where he came from. The man is shrouded in
mystery.”
“Oh really, Virginia!” Charles scoffed, his crystal
blue eyes burning.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * *
‘Who is this beautiful young creature?’ thought
Devlin as he sat in his private box
at the Opera. ‘Her hair is like golden silk and her skin is
a smooth and pale as cream.
How I would love to taste her. Hold her in my power. She
will be mine.’

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * *

“Mother, how did you ever convince me to come
here? What if that man is
here?” Virginia said to her mother.
“Don’t you worry child, I’m sure he won’t be here.”
Virginia knew that her mother was wrong. As the
lights dimmed, Virginia could
feel his eyes in her. How she wished that Charles were
there. Her heart pounded and her
buxom chest heaved all through the show. When it came time
to leave, her already pale
skin was as white as sheet.
“Why child,” commented her mother, “you look as
though you’ ve seen a ghost.”
“I just feel a bit ill, Mother. I think when we get
home I shall lie down.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * *

Devlin stood in the light of the streetlamp out
side Virginia’s window.
“I must have her tonight.” he thought.
He stalked around to the back of the house and
unlocked the door. Strange how
that key he had found in his pocket fit this door. He crept
stealthily up the stairs and
slipped silently into Virgin’s room.
‘How beautiful she looks, sleeping there
peacefully,’ he thought. ‘How I want her,
but I must frighten her first.’
First, he chloroformed her, so that she could be
easily stripped, bound, and
gagged. After this tasked was performed, he woke her. As he
had suspected, she
attempted to scream, but her cries were muffled by the gag.
“Hello leibling,” he said in a deadly voice. “How
I have wanted you for so long.
I want to see you suffer, bleed for me.” He then pulled a
silver dagger from his cape. “DO
you love me darling?” He took off his cape and top hat,
revealing his wavy black hair. “I
have wanted you from the first time I saw you at the
Opera.” he continued as he threw his
sunglasses to the floor, his crystal blue eyes shining in
the dark. “Now I shall have you.”
He removed his clothes. Then, dagger in hand, he
approached the bed.
“Let us see what you taste like leibling.” Then, he
ran the blade just above the top
of her pubic hair. He licked the blood from the would, and
then proceeded about his dirty
work.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * *

The next morning the chamber maid found Virginia
brutally mutilated, naked,
gagged, bound, and dead. On the floor beside the bed was a
silver dagger that was
inscribed with the name, Charles M. Forsythe.

Blood Song
The curtains are closed as the pale, gaunt faces
file in, one after another in to the
theater. They are dressed in their finest for this rare
performance. Silk, velvet and taft,
white gloves, capes and top hats. You notice the elegance
of this evening’s patrons, yet
you are afraid. The private boxes are full tonight,
unusual for the winter season. Soon,
everyone has taken their seats. It is almost time to begin.
The theater is very old, decadent even. It was
built in the pre-Revolutionary days
of France. Now, standing n the middle of Paris, it is a sad
reminder of the bloody past.
The lights dim in the theater. It is so dark that
you cannot even see the crimson
curtains rise. The stage is illuminated with candlelight..
Slowly, the conductor takes his
place at the podium. As he lifts his hands, the players
raise their instruments. All is silent
in the theater as the begin.
The music is supernatural, frightening, beautiful.
Fury, intensity, sadness, love,
hate and fear, all in one movement. Never in all of your
years working in this theater had
you ever heard music such as this. The music is so moving,
filled with so much emotion,
that the audience begins to weep. Tears slowly fall from
their eyes, disappearing before
they have a chance to roll down all those pale, gaunt,
cheeks. Tears of blood?
The conductor, waving his hands wildly with sweat
pouring from his brow directs
the intensified musicians. Sweat of blood? The musicians,
also teary eyed from the sheer
beauty of the music they are creating, struggle to see the
music in front of them.
The music is intensifying and slowly coming to an
end. The tension in the music
crescendos to a terrifying climax. Your head is suddenly
filled with images of death,
destruction and carnage. Horrors so unspeakable fill your
thoughts and there is no escape.
Then, the song and the images abruptly end with a short
drum roll and a crash of cymbals.
The audience applauds, and though you have no idea
why, so do you. As the
orchestra stands and takes a bow you are overcome with the
feeling that you were not
supposed to be here. They look at you with their cold eyes,
their bloodstained faces
hideous in the candle light. The crimson curtain falls as
the lights come back on. Along
with the audience and musicians, you shuffle toward the
exit.
When you hit the street, you run in blind terror
into the darkness. You can feel
those cold eyes on you , lusting for the fluid that runs
through your veins. They want your
life and they smell your fear. You wandered into a
forbidden place, you are an outsider
among the undead. Run, dear one, for the fiends have not
yet fed.


Tears of Blood

Tears if blood streaming down your cold, pale cheeks.
You say nary a word, but your soul speaks.
I’m just a heartless killer, not of mortals though.
A monster, I murdered your soul so long ago.

Tears of blood I kiss away,
Tears of blood descend.
Tears of blood; the price to pay
For my deadly sins.

Looking into your eyes,
I see those tears of blood;
And all of my lies
Just add to the flood.

Tears of blood fill your eyes,
Stain your cold, pale cheeks.
Your beauty now stained with red,
Your tormented soul to me now speaks.

Pain. I have caused you much.
Sorrow. I trigger with my touch.
Misery. Is all you show.
Remorse. How much I feel, you’ll never know.

Tears of blood, now I see,
Streaming down your face.
I wish love now could be
In it’s rightful place.

Beautiful Demons

looking deep into your eyes, I see ever so much, I always
have and always will
I try ever so hard my friend, but I simply can not
understand you still
Why ? is my favorite question, much too inquisitive am I
I love you ever so much, yet culls am i.
why you only see the decadence, I do not comprehend
there must be death to enable life. all things must meet
their end.
tragedy makes life interesting, as much as it may hurt your
soul
it eventually makes you stronger, once again making you
whole.
Why? not look at the beauty in pain and sorrow
Why? not view the beauty of pain and death
Why? not look at all that is beautiful
be it the death of the mother, or her child's first breath.
beauty is what you want, not what you see
to me death is beautiful, for that is what I want it to be.
insanity is my middle name, that you should know by now
yet, you love this misshapen monster, that beauty you allow.
I do not know
I must go
into a nightmare of beautiful demons

Nosferatu

you are my nosferatu
you really ought not to
be so evil to her
my little nosferatu

you are my hitler
you really shouldn’t hurt'er
just cause she's jew
my little hitler

you are my hoffa
you better get right off 'a
all those drugs
my little jimmy hoffa

you are my charles manson
you should stop all your insane danc'n
around all the dead bodies
my little charles manson

you are my youngest child
you shouldn't be so wild
what have I done wrong?
my little youngest child

you are my nosferatu
you really ought not to
hate your poor old mother
my little nosferatu
Murder

Dead on the kitchen floor,
Not with us any more.
The butcher knife in the hands
Of the sweet little whore.

Dead is now what he is;
No longer a pimp is he.
The crime was never known,
and now the whores are free.

Beneath the floorboards he now lies,
Of the kitchen where he died.
The cops in town all smell the stink,
For his head is beneath there sink.

Nick Rhodes

Those eyes, oh so sexy.
Beautiful lips so sweet;
How I long to taste them.

Raven,
Your true colour,
But not your you colour.
Deep inside is a peroxide blonde . . .
. . . Waiting, just waiting to come out.

Lipstick, eyeliner, mascara, eyeshadow,
You are a rock star.
Rock is a prostitute.
Tart yourself up, my dear,
Tart yourself up.

You're such a beautiful man.
My Dark Angel looks the same as you,
Though he won't tart himself up.
Insecure in his masculinity.

Why must you look at me that way?
Such a sexy, penetrating look.
As if you see through to my soul;
As if you want me . . .
I want you . . .
. . . Do you want me?

You make me come undone.
You, my dear are wilder than the wind;
One touch from your velvet hand would blow me into cry.
You are who I need . . .
You are who I love . . .
When I come undone . . .

Artist
Rocker
Glamour
Moder
Father
Lover

Is there anything you cannot do?
Yes, there are two tasks you cannot perform.
You cannot stop looking at me so sexy;
And you cannot stop being my icon.

I wish I were your temple.
Oh! Holy Saint Nick!
Bless the temple with your presence!
If only in my dreams.

And if only Oscar Wilde's notion were reality!
And the picture now before me withered and wrinkled with
age,
And you, my darling, stayed forever a captivating beauty.

We shant worry too much about that now, dear,
For your personality is far more precious than your looks.
Aesthetic beauty is not everything;
Inner beauty is ageless.

Darling, stay wilder than the wind,
Continue to blow me into cry.
Up on my marble pillar,
You are eternally my icon.

Cartoons

I am disturbed
like a cartoon in a loony bin
I need a padded room, a straight jacket
and some pink bunny ears from way back when.............

............I was young, and happy, and sane
when the only people who wore straight jackets were on
Loony Toons
now I am a Loony Toon

Arkham is now my residence
I eat my meals from tubes
I wear my bunny ears from way back when
my mommy moved to the loony bin.

Maryland Boy Tryyin’ to Make it In Cali

Another school shooting,
How many does this make?
How many lives have been shattered,
For conformity's sake?

He looked different.
He dressed different.
He talked different.
He acted different.
What do you expect,
From a Maryland boy,
Tryin' to make it in Cali?

In their school today they weep.
But what of the tears Andy wept?
He tried to reach out for help from them,
But to their own cliques they kept.

"Dress like us, we'll talk to you.
Talk like us, we'll laugh with you.
Act like us, we'll walk with you.
Conform, you'll be one of the crew."

Andy Williams:
A Maryland boy,
Tryin' to make it in Cali.

This tragedy, like all the others,
Comes from pushing too far,
too hard.
They teased, persecuted, tormented, alienated.
And now they weep.

But there aren't enough tears for the pain felt,
By a Maryland boy, just tryin' to make it in Cali.
"Freak." "Geek"
"Fag." "Queer."
Year after year,
They tease and jeer.
Someday soon another's gonna snap.
Andy did the shootin', but who's gonna take the rap?

Pushing harder everyday'
Closer and closer to the edge.
America, get on your knees and pray,
For all the Maryland boys,
Tryin' to make it in Cali.


So, Darlings, shall I be a DeSade? A Waters? Stay wilder
than the wind . . .


Ad:0
Try a new drinks recipe site