Cert 18 The Hippodrome’s Lair (The Watchman II)
Thrusting the blood dripping knife into her back,While caressing his body onto her in this vicious attack,He falls to the floor crying, as she lay there dying,His panting breath from within his throat drying. The breathless shaking man on his knees looking up,In his hands, her hair and her blood he has cupped.Her body face down on the dressing room table,And in the mirror, blood splatter and a perfumed long sable. He lies her down and lays beside her kissing her lips,Squeezing her tight and stroking her hair and her hips.“What have I done? What does this to me?”The fear of his guilt, the monster you see. So it’s down to the basement and on to the drains,The bloodstained canvas of human remains.For when they’re out of sight, he can live once again,And rid of his conscience, away from his den. It’s six in the morning and staff do arrive,He’s off for a coffee before he takes a short drive.He sips on his espresso and looks to the sky,And smiles at the ladies, the ones that walk by. He’s so happy in the days bright morning sun, full of life,But his mind sees pictures, like the flash of a knife.The turmoil he has tries to make his life thin,And provokes the monster that lives there within. In his bedroom and surrounding the full mirror,There’s photos of victims, which some are a blur.He loves the recent one’s while fresh in his mind,And some give him pleasure, in memory he finds. One day while visiting the museum in the city,In walked a girl, so young and so pretty.The Watchman went out of his way to get close,Nervously bumping and stumbling over her toes. “Oh I’m so sorry, it was really clumsy of me,Will you forgive me, if I buy you some tea?”“Of course” said the girl, “that’s a great cure,It will give me a break from studying décor” “If that’s your interest, I can help you a lot,As where I work has everything in your thought.Would you agree to have dinner with me,Say at The Delphi tomorrow around quarter past three?” She agreed then, a date has been struck,His fantasy begins, he can’t believe his luck.He rushes home to his mirror of lust,His warped imagination, his heavy breathing bust. The table is set, he stares into her eyes and smiles,And they talk of the décor and all their great styles.She is beautiful as she talks, but he cant see this,Thinking of the flesh under a pink lace bodice. They arrange to meet at twelve under a shadow in the street,Outside The Hippodrome, she cant wait for her treat.The visual of pastels, curves, bronze and candelabra,Anticipating the art of a long bygone era. They enter the theatre, they stop and embrace,The encouragement brought on, the smirk on his face.“We have to enter by the trap door that’s there on the stage”His hands sweating, heavy breathing, the countdown to rage. As she walks into the dressing room and looks all around,The Watchman changes from a smile, to a man with a frown,He bashes her head, she slumps on the dresser stunned,And ties her hands, this girl he has shunned. This is the outcome of The Watchman’s quick flirt,She’s in his lair, he’s removing her skirt.Pulling her hair back lifting her head,This poor girl will be wishing herself she was dead. His penetration of her soul, is demeaning her life,As he reaches into the drawer for a large carving knife.As he has his way with this asthmatic come,Spraying saliva from a teeth clenching thrum. The knife blade glimmers from the dim lit candle,And blood spurts across the room, and lies a brown sandal.The noise of chipping bone from the thrust of the blade,Echoes through the corridors to his symphony that’s played. No one can hear the screams, from under the ground,The Watchman’s heavy breathing, she’ll never be found.She didn’t realise, she wasn’t the first,His sexual mentality, his need for his lust. He lifts her down and embraces her body gentle,His Schizophrenic mind, he’s insane, and he’s mental.He cries for her love, he’s sorry in murder,There’s a point in a relationship, he cant take it no further. He sleeps with his girls almost every night,In his bane in the drain covered up out of sight.The Watchman is watching, it may well be from afar,Watching from a window, a bus or a car. The Hippodrome is locked, the night has gone still,And The Watchman stands at the mirror, getting his thrill.His sticky wet hands with the blood he did spill,The smile of contentment, makes a blood curdling chill. It’s six in the morning and the staff do arrive.He’s off for a coffee before he takes a short drive.He sips on his espresso, lights a cig from a match,And smiles at the ladies, that he hopes to catch. Bernie Logue.