Having figured out the thematic concerns of my show; the use of an alter ego, psychopathy, and of course the medium of gothic poetry. I now had to take what I had learned from Ted Bundy’s interview and Anthony Hopkins’ performance of Hannibal, to create the shows text, the poem. Very quickly I began to discover the magnitude of the task before me. I would need to brainstorm ideas, in order to create my narrative structure – in other words, the story my poem was going to tell. Like any story, I would structure my work into a beginning, middle and an end. I planned to fashion those three steps into four separate sections.

The outline of my narrative, tells the story of an unnamed man, who, now trapped inside an interrogation room, gives us what appear to be his final words before his execution. He tells the story of how he was bullied heavily at school, and tormented to the point he would run away, with no help from teachers, parents or anyone who could have controlled the situation. The man jumps back and forth between his past, and his present situation, and speaks like a man who is regretful at some of the things he has done. Initially, he will not take responsibility for these actions, blaming his situation on the fact he was “born in hell”.  He talks fondly of his street (which is what I decided to use in order to make this psycho killer relatable, everyone remembers their childhood street… don’t they??) In SECTION TWO, he goes on to talk about his father’s influence and the negative things he was told at such a young age.

In BOLD are the examples of wordplay taken from my Eminem entry.

 

SECTION ONE:

WHO AM I?
Unhappy slaps and split hands, shaking fits and skipping plans 

That was the fabric of my life at a young age. 

Now I find myself in strife and when sun says goodnight I never sleep, 

I get crazy-achy as my mind starts to take me down my street, 

My first glimpse of escapin’ home, as I look inside the gaping hole, but my mind wont retreat, 

even at my own surprise, the facts of life will soon surmise, that I will never see my street again.  

Open arms welcome defeat again, my once bright life looks bleak in shame,  

that I only have myself to blame, for how this came to be. 

But even If I got my wish, and lady luck give me the slip, would my mind not still lose it’s grip on reality? 

A part of getting older is accepting that my mind is here to challenge me,  

So I can then accept that my thoughts and dreams are fallacies,  

Lost inside the cold of a monumentally broken home, left to roam as a clone of my former self. 

What is this? The hornets shelf, with stings sharp enough to engorge themselves and sold enough to be bought as well?

Yeah, that’s I thought as well. The kind of stories that the teachers who taught would tell, oblivious to the fact I was born in hell.

Who am I? 

 

 

SECTION TWO:

WHAT HAVE THEY DONE TO ME? 

 

SO… did I deserve this? Words cutting so fierce, as though you rehearsed this. If violence is so unforgivable, then why do you disperse it?  

If the sunlight was a blessing why did you raise me to curse it, and thrive from the darkness of which I now emerge in. 

This is my home now, I will never see my street again, my now-black heart will never, with another share the beat again. 

All of your teachings have lead me to the beast again, but I fear not. 

I only fear the thickening of the plot, to go back to a place where time forgot, and be someone I’m not. Who would string together questions with the answers tied in knots? Who am I? What have they done to me? 

If I was such a monster, then why why why did they not run from me?  

I didn’t hold a gun you see. Oh nothing quite as fun you’ll see. It seemed I’d never rise before the sun brightened my eyes, much to your surprise.  

Hmmm. Isn’t it nice, to think you are good inside, and not a parasite destined for demise. I guess we’ll try, lets hope your curiosity helps you find out why…. I’ll never see my street again. 

 

SECTION THREE:

 YOU DID THIS, OR WAS IT US?

 

Without the lights attempts of saving grace, I find in my own eyes a reflection of your face. 

My creator, the one who sets the pace and leads the evil into place behind the driving seat.  

Back then it was fine to see your only boy lost and died, now me, few and far between the person I’d like to be. Oh what a sight to see.  

The hopeless futility of nature under nurtures grasp, so faithless from the hurt thats passed, but hatred is the word that lasts, a concept so absurd that it hurts to even work the task. But the task is done, and now at last… I will never see my street again.  

Not one bite will I eat again, as I’m ravaged by the beast, his name? Me and you, complete again 

holding on to beseech the brain, and entertain the complex thought that we are all the same.   

Forever in the motion of cutting through the grass until the grass becomes the people who have stood right in your path.  

A path soon to be opened, once the light has all but left, and the beast is now awoken stood with baited breath. 

I did not create myself, for I was born of you, until the essence of my mind was sadly ripped in two.  

Now some of me is here, and the other half is you, your the half that holds the knife… there’s nothing I can do.  

Thank you, Father. For the gifts that you have given, otherwise who could have known where my distant mind would have driven.  

 

SECTION FOUR:

PART FOUR: WE ARE ALL ANIMALS.

 

Here we are at the edge of the world, set to kingdom come, for all of this is over now the deed is done, although you would be foolish, to think me the only one. 

There is a beast in everyone, it only needs unlocking, mine was keenly opened, the door fathers knocking 

For nurture beats nature, as nature is not taught, nurture can be forced upon, even if guilt is naught. 

The darkness will creep in, grip you with it’s mandibles, and then you all will see, that all of us are animals. 

For there is no great answer, no deity, no god. Only those who bring us into the world, and give the fatal nod. As pain and suffering take me further and further, it seems quite understandable, why I thirst for murder. My rage will never rest, the page was always left, as my fate was decided before I had drawn breath. 

But if anything is certain before I take my feet again, I know now for sure… I will never see my street again.