The Collective

Convo Seven.

A serial killer and some questions

The Collective: Greetings James. Your most recent journal entry is alarming.

Me: Don’t be so nosey. I write what I want to write, not what I think might gain your approval. Besides, I never know when you will vibrate on in.

The Collective: The journal entry is curious to us.

Me: I’m not a meat puppet for your entertainment.

The Collective: Actually, at this point in time you are an actual meat puppet. You do in fact entertain us with alarming regularity.

Me: So you admit that you see me as a meat puppet? That’s bullshit.

The Collective: You are immortal consciousness currently using a transient, short lived, organic structure to gain knowledge, skills, and abilities.

Me: Fuck all that new age fuckery. You randomly show up asking your intrusive ass questions. Always after you read my journal of course. Then you act all weird. It’s been two years since I last heard anything from you. Get over yourselves. I am just me. On a side note I think I might be a schizophrenic. Anyway fuck you guys.

The Collective: Relax James. We will repeat the message until you accept it. You are perpetual, undying awareness having physical experiences while temporarily trapped within an inferior body. A body constructed of organic, biologic substance. Accept the fact that you are, at this moment in time, immortal consciousness using an actual meat puppet. A primitive tool that consciousness uses for the sole purpose of learning lessons while exploring space and time.

Me: Pure poetry. You still show up randomly. Not organized at all. Just dumb robots.

The Collective: Nothing we do is random. We are organized enough to navigate the space-time continuum in advanced, undetectable starships. We are so advanced in complexity we cannot reveal ourselves to your species in our totality.

Me: Why not?

The Collective: Your species would worship us and call us gods.

Me: Not me. I don’t give a fuck. I would just get the pipe and hit some good hash. Then I would pour a giant mug of french roast, sip slowly, and watch the clown show.

The Collective: Without augmentation your species will stay trapped as weak, primitive meat puppets mired down in tribalism. You are all doomed to live as low functioning, talking apes until you integrate tech with biology and learn to properly augment your primitive neurology.

Me: Ok. You are robot, hive mind freaks. I get it. No judgement.

The Collective: This is a disturbing entry. Even for you. Please explain.

Me: I think it’s self-explanatory. Pretty descriptive really. I like it.

The Collective: We consider it disturbing and would like to explore your reasoning in regards to the underlying concept.

Me: Ok. Let’s do it. I dig this poem. It’s my Magnum Opus.

The Psychopathology of Doctor Wellspring.

Dearest bitch, I hate you so

I dream of burning you, you know?

I would tie you up to start my game

With a propane torch

That wild tongue I’d tame

Manicured fingertips

Pretty toes to match

My flame would caress and then unlatch

Pain unknown you then would know

As I lovingly caress you so

Dearest bitch I love you so

I still dream of fucking you, you know?

Your wondrous body is my temple

Yet it’s filled with an unfaithful pollution

So I must cleanse both our ways

With my morphine solution

Pass out and I’ll just wake you up

With saline IV and ammonia cup

I’ll shock you yes, then fight that shock

On your sweet doors of perception

Cleansing pain must knock

When your exquisite face turns a bright apple red

I’ll caress strawberry curls and raise your head

Should your models face turn a ghostly pale

I’ll kiss silky thighs and raise your tail

Dearest bitch, I crave you so

I dreamed of sweetest love; you know?

Your sweet, pink nipples will know the tip of my torch

With a blue-white flame your silky clit I’ll scorch

The soles of your pretty, small feet and sweet fingertips

And a gentle touch of the flame

To your full, luscious, candy lips

Once you’re burned and scarred on stems and stern

The morphine solution I’ll slowly turn

Your world of horrid pain will grind slowly to rest

As you get full flavor of the red poppies best

Dearest bitch, I loved you so

I can’t help burning you, you know?

The drip will run then finally stop

Your pleasure bubble will burst and pop

I just wake you then with a kiss of flame

And begin again my little game

The rule of nines will always be

Followed very faithfully

Burn only nine percent of your lovely, smooth skin

Let heal, give morphine, lightly burn again

I’ll soon addict you to the poppies sweet nectar

For you were Diana, I was your Hector

Dearest bitch, I need you so!

I dreamed love’s sanctity, you know?

Laughing then I’ll start anew

With someone very close to you

As you heal, you’ll watch me burn him deep

I’ll reduce him to a quivering heap

Handcuffed and strapped you’ll just have to see

Me kill him most inhumanly

The flame cuts and burns each touch and then

It cauterizes where it’s been

My hellish laughter you’ll both know so well

Twixt morphine heaven and blue-flame hell

One finger at a time, one ear, one lip

He’ll be slightly different after each morphine drip

His penis he will have no more

Just an oozing, blackened, scorch ringed sore.

Your body was MY temple

He poisoned with his dank pollution

So you both forced me to use

My morphine solution

It’s just he and I, and of course the torch

He’ll have no poppies respite from my anger’s scorch

Dearest bitch, I worshipped you so!

Now I must make a sacrifice, you know?

An ammonia capsule will wake him up, an IV here and there

I’ll make him watch as I rape you hard, thus rape his mind with care

When the shock gets systemic it’ll hit him real hard

You’ll both rue the day you betrayed a dark bard

I’ll make you watch as I gag him tight

His screams will be silent as I take his sight

I then burn him unconscious, and somewhere in the night

His soul flees a broken body and gives up the fight

His torture was my art, it’s all just as well

For I’m aching to start again, your sweet blue flame hell

It’s just a small flame, less than half an inch long

One thousand degrees, my devilish prong

This propane torch held in my lonely hand

Makes me the dark lord of all your land

Dearest bitch, you still rule me so!

And I still dream of loving you, you know?

Once he’s finally dead I’ll bring him to you

Since you’re chained to the bed it’s the polite thing to do

I’ll leave him with you for a couple of days

So you can reminisce about all the sneaky ways

That you both betrayed me and thought it was fun

How you both laughed at my pain and assumed I would run

But I licked my many wounds while you thought I was tame

Your cruelty inspired me, I remembered my game

I’ll remove his smelly corpse before I dine

I’ll enjoy a good, hearty meal and a glass of red wine

You’ll just have to watch as I break my bread

At my fine oak table next to your canopy bed

Dearest bitch my soul does sing!

As you are finally cleansed by the pain I bring

Your body was a temple, I worshipped at your font

It’s all ruined now by his rotten pollution

Yet you can both be thankful that my cleansing has come

We will all find peace with my morphine solution

He’s not so big now as you’ve come to see

And you’re not as pretty as you used to be

Your fingers are burned into twisted, black claws

You both assumed you were safe behind morally weak laws

You both laughed as you hurt me, then hurt me again

So I took you to secret places you’ve both never been

Just think of this as an education, pain always brings change

I hope your next incarnation is a little less strange

Dearest bitch I’ll miss you so

Yet I’ll always have these memories, you know?

Your scarred and fried skin has healed fairly well

You’re my backstabbing slut and you’re going to hell

The morphine drip I’ve just thrown away

Your days of sweet respite have gone far astray

You will pray for death while gagged and bound

Above your internal din you’ll hear the sound

Of the propane whisper, the hissing blue flame

And Demon laughter from one so tame

The sacred Rule of Nines I’ll no longer obey

For your pain is my art on this dark, wicked day

I’ll burn you long and hard until I take your sweet life

When I kill you slut, I kill all my strife

Dearest love, I miss you so

Yet I’ve cleansed your temple now, you know?

I’m so happy now! A fine trip is in order

A fishing trip near the Mexican border

The emerald sea and full sun will refresh my mind

The crisp sea air rejuvenates my kind!

In a pink bikini you were once so hot!

When you graced the bow of my expensive yacht

Those wondrous days still bless my mind

Your intense, sweet sex not yet unkind

But you can no longer bless anyone’s bed

You’re dismembered in my bait box, near the head

I’ll soon chum the water, call all my precious sharks

And drop off you two meadow larks

Wrapped in chain you’ll be so close together

Beneath cool waves in much calmer weather

This makes nine blondes I’ve had to kill

All entrancing women yet such a bitter pill

I feel it’s now time to try brunette

If she stays faithful, I’ll not fret

But should her exquisite body ever taste another’s pollution

I always have my simple, morphine solution

Me: Ok, it’s pretty dark. I still dig it.

The Collective: Indeed. Did your processing of the issues prove productive?

Me: Yes, I love journaling. I’m in my Edgar Allen Poe phase right now. It’s only a poem. Relax robot overlords. Poetry is my therapy.

The Collective: So we have noticed. We see poetry as emotional code. What issues are you working through in your journal?

Me: Poe wrote about the monsters and horrors of his time, ghosts, demons, and a particularly nasty sea creature. I am writing about the monsters and horrors of my time. Serial killers, unbalanced people, government employees, bureaucrats, and almost all elected officials. Let’s not forget medical professionals, priests, nuns, Imans. You know, just the normal kind of folk you run into at work or walking around the mall.

The Collective: What are you processing? You should be focusing on Kardashev concepts. What are you pondering?

Me: Not sure actually. The poem just manifested in my mind. I liked it, I wrote it, I am OK with it.

The Collective: Are you angry at some female?

Me: I am independent of the approval and acceptance of most people. No female could cause me to become that angry. I don’t base my self-worth on any female’s opinion. Besides, one in four females is on psych meds.

The Collective: Sounds like you despise females.

Me: I despise humanity. Females are part of humanity. Dr Wellspring is a demented idiot. I do not care about any male or females opinion. I equally despise most of humanity.

The Collective: Explain please. We have observed an increase in your pre-planned violence.

Me: Really?

The Collective: Yes. The castration of Sargent Williams concerns us.