Suicid' novel preview.

Suicid’- preview.

So there you lie in your coffin, unaware of the fact that you have been pronounced dead. There you lie all handsomely pale in the shade of purple death.

Don’t you smell the roses around you?

Don’t you feel the tears embedded into those clothes, you useless swine?

Don’t you know that you’re being dragged six feet into mindless oblivion?

Dear infantile boy, engulfing yourself in teenage angst, all your dreams of becoming that amazing poet all flushed along with your once-beating heart, dragged six feet into oblivion? Pathetic.

If you are able, roll that sleeve of yours up, your lavish sleeve, your funeral sleeve; a waste to a perfectly fine shirt, but who gives a damn, you never appreciated it.

Roll that sleeve up and see the word ‘shit’ scarred across that once beautiful skin of yours; skin bleached by Parisian winters.

Your nights spent in self-mutilation and immoralities are over, your ploy has worked itself into completion, into progress, into succession.

All those nights spent smoking, masturbating, drinking and oh, I almost forgot, with razors too. Yes with razors too, you sick fuck, but who gives a flying fuck?

Who gives a damn: that was your motto, your sigil, your stanza.

Your unsung paranoia has led you to the twisted belief that everyone in the world doesn’t give a flying fuck about you.

Oh yes, who gave a damn when your grandmother heart broke when yours stopped beating. Your grandmother, your beloved grandmother, your pitiful grandmother; you remember her don’t you?

If you don’t, then you’re just being the selfish bastard you are.

Whore; that’s what you used to call her; Oh yes, a whore took you in when your parents left you for dead at the orphanage, she took you under her gracious wing in her home, that you call a whore? One who cooks a hot homemade meal peppered with love and seasoned with tender loving care.

Oh such a whore that was. You and your delusional, bigoted, selfish, insolent, dumb self are the ones who should be called whore instead.

Don’t you remember the cocoa and tea leaves she was scented with; just as any common well-mannered, soft-spoken British lady, only anchored with heartache, torment, lament but darling, no regret. Now that you stupid fuck, you derogatory fuck of a corpse, is love.

She gave all her wealth just to fulfill your dreams because she never fulfilled hers. Her mother stopped her from being a singer; oh she ever so wanted to.

Your grandmother gave you so much because she didn’t want you to feel and bottle the same hatred you have for your mother; she gave a life better than any orgasm you had with your hand, but well, who gives a damn.

You never spoke those words as if it was a question, you spat them with your nicotine and alcohol stained breath like an answer.

Useless; that’s what you are.

Now look at that beautiful girlfriend of yours, that beautiful hazel-eyed brunette.

She too gave up and sacrificed so much for you, knowing the countless times you cheated on her with your hand, with other girls, with even her own best friend.

She still loves you, but you victimized her into your own selfish plot, you motherfucker.

She is very hurt you know that, you useless fucking swine, do you feel all this as you’re dragged six feet into insane oblivion?

Do you remember first meeting her on metro? She was sitting along waiting to go back home; you were running away from home; running from your mistakes, your problems, your lies, and most of all, your hopes and dreams: your life!

Do you remember how she fell in love with you? You read her your poems and she fell in love with them, don’t you remember reading to her your most favorite?

Angst once sought me with roses in arms
I fell for its beauty and undying charms
Reading to me Byron as it asked for my hand
Finally married on white Caribbean sand
I now sit on a mountain
Widowed ‘bove the clouds
My tear flow a fountain
My eyes reduced to shrouds
Heart now hooded like a wedding veil
Concealing my misery, a tale too real
This mount, not of stone
But a pile of memories, now that I’m alone
Just like the tale of ‘Beauty and the Beast’
He was her burden, she was his feast
Now Angst is gone, gone so far away
What should I feel for the rest of the day?

Oh you, you never fell in love with her, you just wanted so much to screw her. To you, love is just another word in your bloody vocabulary, just ammunition in poetry, a commodity of your art. All you did was fell in lust.

It was she, scented with fruits of the tropics and sun dried clothes who gave her entire self up to devote to you, but wait, who gives a damn? Obviously not that old whore, or this pathetic slut, but they do, you swine, unconditionally.


So by now, if you have realized, you’re just pathetic.

But despite your audacity, you are very talented, gifted, I should say; oh how God spares a thought even to the shrewd, disappointingly.

You wrote fine poetry of angst, frustration and depression, you caught the entire façade of the morbid truth, though your work was never recognized.

Why, you may wonder?

Because talents like you always turn out to be the most zygotic calamity of a human would ever be. Well it does go to show that great minds are often at most invalid.

Talents like you never enjoy the mundane sobriety of sanity; instead, you divulge and indulge in notoriety.

You were like Byron with angst, a poet with an attitude. You can bring the horrors of Lovecraft to ramshackle.

In the eyes of art, you are considerably a harbinger of beauty. But all that talent devoured by depression? But well, who gives a damn.

Are you satisfied?

I hope not.

You may wonder if your work is safe, oh yes they are, at least they’re not going to be dragged six feet into immoral oblivion.

By the way, your name is Vladimir Olsen, you are of Scandinavian descent and you just turned up dead in your room; you hung yourself in an overdose of anti-depressants while you were drunk; you had too much time playing with razors.

All your life you continuously lead an acute pain to those now bereaving around you, the ones who will one day, gradually, and eventually, forgets to clean your tombstone.

Oh, but who gives a damn.

When we two parted in silence and tears
Half brokenhearted to sever for years
Pale grew thy cheek and cold, colder thy kiss
Surely that hour foretold sorrow to this
The dew of the morning sunk chill on my brow
It felt like the warning of what I feel now
Thy vows have been broken and light is thy fame
I hear thy name spoken, and share in its shame
They name thee before me, a knell to my ear
A shudder comes o’er me, why wert thou so dear
They know not I knew thee, who knew thee too well –
Long, long shall I rue thee, too deeply to tell
In secret we met - in silence I grieve
That thy heart forget, thy spirit deceive
If I should meet thee after long years
How should I greet thee – With silence and tears...

January 15,

Do you remember those words? Let me hint you; opium-filled years consumed in filth and reason. Still confused?

That was Byron’s work entitled ‘When We Two Parted’.

You spent countless hours reading that poem, half obsessed with its mysticism, and half obsessed with its meaning. Every time you read it reminded you of how you want to see your parents: that was the starting of your depression.

Poor infantile boy, you and your wildish fantasies of your bitter childhood, overly obsessed you can rewrite it.

You’re now sitting in a library because you dropped out of theatrical school again, because you cheated on your girlfriend again.

You don’t have any friends to turn to because friends to you are boundaries one creates with separate entities to evoke an idea of happiness and comfort and to cease all emotion of loneliness.

You are an eclipse of what you used to be; now disgraced and fathomed into the nightly winds; disintegrated.

You have turned into something so arbitrary to human, reduced to a nothingness of wrath, misery and contempt. You have always been silent despite the words you spoke, and you have never been complete.

You are brilliance, you are genius, but you are also pain and you are also deceit.

This is how you spend an entire perfect day; waking up in the late afternoons, smoke a few cigarettes; a pack or more; you then down some whiskey, scribble poetry.

Where are your 'loved' ones? One should have never picked you up; the other should have already left you.

But they both still love you, unconditionally, and yet so unfortunately, they do, but who gives a damn.

You sit in that library sipping your whiskey, occasionally going out for a smoke, giving a nonchalant, grotesque, dead glare at passers-by, stop acting so morbid. But you just have to don’t you?

You have fathomed yourself deeply, yet you sadistically savour it.


16 January

A twilight; you are but a twilight, a gloom for your personal egomaniacal, megalomaniacal, nihilistic, self-abundant omnipotence.

You are not half an afternoon shadow of what you were, well, you never were anything, you just anchored through each day; that made you really, as how a sober, mundane, sane and knowing society would call ‘weird’.

This is your ode to misery, a qualm of another tormenting day; you torture yourself, you love to harm your body; a new pain a day keeps sanity away.

Your pain is insignificant, a devouring state of the wretched mess you are, and however you inflict pain on yourself, you can never ease the suffering behind those suffocated eyes of your mutilated person.

Constantly, you dwell in a madness; a requiem; a mosaic; an epilepsy of depravity and depression.

You are the ramshackle of a human, a genius for a mind; the torment of your sanity. This is what life is, a new chapter a day; a rendition of you, this is your book.

This is all you.

No matter how bigoted you feel inside, you’re still the same dying monstrosity that you’re created to be. Face it, suck up to it, kill yourself to it, it doesn’t matter anymore to you...



That was just a preview of my little novel entitled: Suicid’.
Hope to publish it by the end of the year if not by early next year; these are just a few pages of the introduction. Screw you and good bye. Kvnt MarcAshley.