‘You are the destroyer.’ he says.

‘So come, just sit with me and listen to what I have to say.’

And he whispers sweet nothings in my ear.

And it is a man’s voice in the tone of a woman.




Dusty, crimson drapes.

Squalid carpet and cheap perfume.

And the message is of madness, mess and mayhem.

And we just sit on a park bench.

Me of the flesh.

He of the shadow.

And people passing would see just one man.

But there are two.

And one is the Devil.

And one is not.

The dogs sense his presence.

And the birds here his chirp.

And he is whispering insistently into my brain.

And what he describes sounds so, so good.

Yes, he knows when to come to me and he strikes like a viper.

Paintings of naked women dripping sweat.

And I am swimming back stroke in the disease.

‘You are not of this world. You are one of ours.

They are boring.

So mundane.

And you hate vanilla.

Vanilla car, vanilla job, vanilla life.

Come back to the flock.

We miss you.

Drink from the chalice and she will be yours.’

And the wanton, needy desire rises in me and sits on the top of my chest choking my throat, as I catch my breath.

And I can feel my veins throbbing in my hands and neck.

And my feet are too large for my shoes.

Stimulated blood raging through my body.

And it wants release.

The justification begins;

‘It won’t take long and no one will know and the sun will rise again. It will be our little secret.’

But secrets are toxic and lies are an anchor to the soul.

A chocolate cake laced with blood.

My blood.

Their blood.

That’s why I detest velvet cake.

The vanilla icing hides the reality of so much loss.

So I pretend I am normal and step into the day.

‘Act normal for God’s sake!’

Normal people in normal lives.

And I smile and nod as the small talk rises like sour bile.

But, I can destroy this room of plastic people.

And bite chunks of you and spit you down onto the street.

The gore bouncing off gilded windows and sliding doors.


‘Where did the man go we knew so well? Such a contradiction’ they say.

‘So kind, so soft.’

And I smirk in the corner feeding on the meat.


95% good and 5% bad.

But the badness runs so fucking deep.

Dark and cold and deep.

Yet, I put on my suit and straighten my tie and take my pre-ordered piccolo into the car and slowly sip, while I think of the mayhem.


Just for me.

Fake, fucking Sydney

City so smart, but a conscious removed.

You defeat me.

Wrapped in plastic.

To insulate our reality.

Protect us from emotion but we are all too far gone.

And as the doubt gathers, the plastic catches and blisters form under my arms.

‘What for? Why?’

My teeth stuck on thin, pale lips.

‘Just one day. I’ll bargain with you.

It’s a deal.

A day off and I will go back to the calm.

Quid pro quo.

You give and I will take, because I’m sick of giving and it’s all too hard.

Way too hard.

The debt has been paid and the money exchanged.

This life you ask of me is too hard.’

And he continues to whisper in my ear and his sinister suggestions catch in the tiny, fine hairs.

And they ring like good crystal.

Crystal chalices full of powder and wine.


Still you come.

The moving hands of the clock have outlasted a generation but I know your knock.


Tick, tock.

Comfortable, pulsing fear.

‘Why would I fear any other man when I deal with you?’

And your shadow crosses the front porch when my joy could not be higher.

When life has never been so good.

When people trust me and I can be relied upon to meet my word.


You urge me to just spit that in their faces and grind it into the dust.

Sweet, scented seductions masks a greater pain.

But I still sit with you and even inch closer on that cold, hard bench.

And listen hard.


And everywhere is silent.

‘Come follow me.’

And a curved talon points to a darker corner of the park.

‘See that wall of granite my love?

Behind in the grove, under the twisted apple tree she waits.

Ripe breasts.

Warm thighs.

Thick long hair over hooded, glistening eyes.

She will give and take.

Soft sighs.

I will help you climb to her.’

The beast smiles and my heart freezes.

And something in my head clicks back.

A glimmer of hope.

‘I built that wall with my bare hands.’

And I gaze at the scars on my knuckles.

Each stone dragged and lifted into place.


Blood and bone but made of lies.

I drop my head and speak, and it comes out as a gasp.

‘Begone foul dog! That wall is mine.’

And I stand up, turn and walk slowly back into the pale, winter light.

The image of my wife and sons break the mirage.


Need to read more?

Read the now infamous Chapter Twelve from One Day, One Life: P. 31-36. One Day One Life

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