Tick away, O clock, tonight,

My bedroom smells of solitude,

My biggest critic yonder lies,

Interred in rakes and polished shoes.

A slush echoes around these walls,

As I pour water in my mug,

My brain is raw, and clear to paint

A poem without drink or hiccup.

A constant beam of soothing light

Is rippling through my supple nerves,

And coaxing out my inward thoughts,

And nudging forth my latent words.

My judging soul is kept at bay,

Way down in the garden shed,

I plan to plough the earth all day,

And drop my better half to rest.

Come, venture forth as I describe

The story of my bludgeoned wife.

~•■•~

"It's all your fault!" She'd screamed at me,

That I didn't have a scrap of heart,

That bounced attachment back at her,

That loved her 'till death did us part'.

She was as good a wife to me,

As worries are comrades to thought,

She sewed, and washed, and fed, and loved-

And ne'er a penny back she sought.

~•■•~

And then she turned insane, you know,

She screamed at me for hours on end,

While I consoled her through her tears

And tried to shake her into sense.

It wasn't under my control

To find my guard so well undone,

It was, you see, entirely she,

That should be blamed for my stepson.

~•■•~

My wife refused to see my way,

So I shook her until she wept,

And watched the floor swallow her tears,

And marr her childlike face unkempt.

~•■•~

"It wasn't like I didn't protest,

But she knocked breath out of my lungs,

As I caressed her mogra hair,

And watched a few buds come unstrung.

And in that tiny, shimmering bedroom

I unleashed my carnal beast-

The morning sun could not kidnap

The mingled fragrance of my keep.

A keep she was, and ever is-

No matter if she did go through

A similar lover for the night-

Or had the same parents as you.

Oh, yes I know! She was your sister

She was also much more willing

For letting social norms go by

And delving in a night of sinning.

Alas! My gullible wife, you have

No one but your finger to blame

For when you pressed the trigger white-

I noticed you both screamed the same.

~•■•~

Her blood is gone, I wiped it clean;

I dumped her flesh behind the shed,

I hid the gun, and scrubbed the floor;

I sprayed a freshener through the ledge.

So you, my love, could finally see

How good a husband I can be."

~•■•~

Alas; my wife, she lets me down,

She pushes my heart o'er the edge;

She keeps on wailing at her fate,

And dirties my attended ledge.

And that's when I feel myself snap

And pull a blanket o'er her head

I can't find my magazines-

So I strangle her to pulp instead.

~•■•~

Tick away, O clock, tonight,

My bedroom smells of broken will,

Five year of sneaking into lust,

Have whittled to startling standstill.

A rot of flesh pierces my nose,

And makes up for an empty mug,

A level hand and a tranquil mind

I settle in my body snug.

There's nothing like a little fight

To coax a poem from your chords,

For as I'd clasped my wife's fine neck,

I swear I'd heard a Robert Frost.

I've been christened by different names,

I prefer God the best, by far,

For how would you title a man

Who does not know what humans are?

Thus does my story go, O Reader,

I have not the slightest qualm

In feeling pity for the lad

Who lies beside in childish calm.

A stepson he is to my heart,

And not the waif of wife or keep-

He did not stir, until just now-

I sometimes envy children's sleep.

He shifts awake, and rubs his eyes

The same brown as the ones I gouged,

And asks, in utmost infant plea,

"Dad, what were those weird banging sounds?"

"Clocks, my boy," I croon and smile,

"When night-time falls, they get quite loud.

Now close those doe-brown eyes for me

And let me tell you tales of God."

~•■•~

A/N- This is fiction. Pure, sheer, naked fiction. I had fun writing from a psychopath's perspective. I, in no way, endorse or attempt to rationalise the actions, thoughts, gestures etc. suggested in the piece.