the real macabre

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

na.

beneath the veneer of a stable self

beneath the thin veil required to

pass through our own everyday reality

s/he bears just beneath her/his skin

the gnashing of the teeth &

s/he does it so well that

one would never ever pick up on it---

and as americans,

we are fixated on our own morbid fascination with

death---

we go to theaters, we rent dvds,

we make pilgrimages to the actual sites where

murders have taken place

(now turned into tourist traps) &

we breathe it all in deeply,

all in the attempt to get closer to the experience

without jumping right off the edge ourselves---

we smell, taste & writhe in the slashing, gushing

blood,

knowing the names of all the famous serial killers by

memory &

waiting for another to pop up in the 6 o’clock news

with butterflies in the stomach of mediocrity

biting our nails as if we were just about to ask

someone out on a

date,

but s/he continues in her/his own routine,

having fed on the same culture that we have

having consumed everything thrown at them &

having grown weary of stimulants

that just don’t work anymore,

s/he is the next door neighbor of us all

s/he resides in the apartment down the hall

s/he may work in the schools with the children of the

nation

s/he may wear the uniforms of those that are

supposed to save us &

s/he may stand behind a pulpit or podium,

carnivorous & full of a need for

complete

vengeance---

and yet the next time it does happen

we sit in awe remarking

“what a travesty,”

listening to “experts” give their detailed histories

pontificating quotidian comments like

“if s/he hadn’t been a killer, s/he would have been

able to do so much with

her/his life,”

as if not one of us knew where the real macabre lies.


Submitted: April 16, 2012

© Copyright 2022 delapruch. All rights reserved.

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