These Walls Have Had Enough
If these walls could talk, they'd crumble from the horrors they’ve seen. Blood splatters all over the floor. Body parts lie in heaps on the ground, wails fill every part of the room. Within these walls are where lives were taken with injustice. Where dreams of innocent children were crushed. Where they smiled through the pain for the last time. Within these walls are where a mother called out for her children but her calls were met with a piercing silence. Where a father held his children's remains in waste bags and cried. Where a child lost every member of his family. Where people went insane holding onto their loved ones' dead bodies. Within these walls are where parents write the names of their children on their legs and on their hands to identify them if they’re murdered. These walls have cried out for help, but the world was deaf. These walls have spoken out of their oppression time and time again, but the world was busy portraying them as the enemy. Their voices came in screams of pain and heartache, but the world was crying, praying for their killers. Everything these walls suffer, they had to suffer on their own. These walls have seen bodies flooding in by the hundreds all at once until they had no more spaces to spare. They’ve seen families being ripped apart, families being completely erased with no survivors and hoped their names won’t be forgotten. They’ve seen doctors coming across the faces of those they loved lying amongst the dead but had to keep working. They’ve heard their cries, seen their angst upon their faces. But never once had they seen them give up. Piles upon piles of a never-ending flow of victims. These walls stretched out, no longer the four walls of a morgue, but they extended to the hospitals, to schools, to anywhere else they thought would be safe, until the whole city became one big morgue. They even reached out to ice cream trucks, where instead of seeing the smiles on their kids’ faces eating an ice cream, parents kept their lifeless kids inside in bloody shrouds. These walls thought they’d seen the worst, but still, every day is a new horror, every day comes with a bigger loss, every day is the worst.
If these walls could talk, they'd cry out, is this the death of humanity? If these walls could talk, they'd ask, what did these children do to deserve this? What did they do to deserve to be stripped of their rights to dream, to grow up, to have a family? To be stripped of their simple right to be children.
For years these walls have watched the people within die defending what they believed in. For years these people have been urged to leave their homes, leave their land, leave their memories and their families and their dignity. For years these people refused to be moved, they stood tall, fearless, and smiling in the face of death. For years they lived in oppression. And now the world asks them, why don’t you live in peace with your oppressors?
All these walls ever asked for was freedom. Was that too much to ask? If these walls could talk, they'd weep.
These walls are not just random walls, and if these walls could talk, they'd be proud to say, we are Palestine.
Someplace Special
I took my friend
out for the night
She said, "where?
are we going????"
I sighed...
it's a surprise,
and covered her eyes
as we got in the car
at dusk it looked
like a limo alright
all sleek
long and dark
with tinted windows
and sheared curtains
drawn
as four wheels gave
a squeal of delight,
soon we arrived!
She leaned heavily
on my left shoulder
tipsy and wobbly kneed
We could hear closer
the sharpening of knives
First thought was
"a Hibachi!
Righttt?!"
there was even some
music to sashay to
for old fogies like us
Her eyes popped open
at the touch of the sheets
Nuh uh! closing them tight
"a hotel!!? really kinda
quick dontchya think?"
The fella handed me
a tag for the bag
and I gave a brisk
doubtful wave
and a parting kiss
to her supine face
"are we taking
a trip?"
I tried to keep it light
and then not to cry...
"oh the honeymoon
is over?"
not quite...
click click of metal on metal
on the cold doorknob, no!
"I'll see you maybe.. later?"
on the other side...
10.09.2023
(The Walls Keep Quiet) the Morgue challenge @ChrisSadhill
Slippery When Wet
Bodies in solution
In a current of pollution
Of bodily fluids and
Bloated redistribution
Wheels wobble the gurney
And fling drops on its journey
To dock with the cooler and
Sidestep processes, wormy
The ground underfoot
Always wet from those caput
Biohazardous fluids or the
Cremator's soot
Cessation of junctions
Whence bodily functions
Are chilled to the bone
Despite Extreme Unction
Full cryogenic storage
After solitary carnage
Tags the big toe
In metatarsal moorage
Trocars now insert
Into vessels now inert
And drain out what's left
Of a life once overt
Whether six-feet under
Or flamed all asunder
Or sprinkled in a place
T'was either special or a dumper
We all get there deader
A final rejection letter
Interring us onward
To be sized up for our fetters
The goodly undertaker
Now wouldly caretaker
Who prepares us well
To meet our Creator
"Will be missed" or "Good riddance"
Depends on what pittance
One leaves others when leaving
This life of incoherence
The price of the casket
No one dares ask it
A home of eternity in a
Pointless wastebasket
Mortician finishes work that night
And locks up the place nice and tight
But it's Halloween and so party on—
The place'll be jumping tonight!
Molly
The dead never stop coming so why would he? Just as reliable as tax season, my double doors widen just enough to reveal Bert, the county coroner in chorus with the rotary clock flipping to 7:45 AM. He snaps the light switch and replaces his black trench coat with a white one.
The refrigerator temperature gauge he checks first, a perfect 36 degrees, then navigates the room with precision verifying the four medical cots are still neatly lined in the corner. He inspects the troughs on all sides of the stainless steel embaling table and makes sure the bucket for drainage is securly attached. His perky eyebrows indicate he’s satisfied. Next, is the autopsy table. He stands tall cataloging each instrument on the cold metal tray. First, the scalpel, then scissors, followed by a mallet, and lastly his hand grazes over the star of the show, the bone saw. All accounted for. He swallows a warm sip of his French-pressed brew, confirming his morning is perfect, then Inhales a long satisfied breath.
Basking in another successful start, Bert mutters “Re-check temps, open emails, call in lunch order.”
Bang! The double doors fly open. Bert stumbles backwards nearly falling over the instrument tray. Detective Spooner leads the charge.
“Holy Shit Spooner”. Bert cries out.
“Bertieee, I need your goddamn attention on this body now!” spouting off orders without consideration.
A sandy-haired paramedic, Tim, follows him into the room pushing a gurney, then parks it near the coat rack like usual. Bert nods at Tim expecting little in return.
“Hey, Tim.”
Tim, usually less social than most offers up an awkward raise of his wrist and a half smile.
“Hi, Bert.”
Rushed for time and patience the detective shooes Tim out.
“Get the van moved and meet me at the front doors!”
Tim stares at the floor then slips out the double doors doing what he’s told.
Today shouldn't have been any different. But today there was an urgency. You were the urgency.
“This one’s fucking important, she's the Mayor's daughter, Bert. They need to know what happened to her and they need it fast.” he barks. He turns to push through the door shouting “You know the fuckin drill, call me with the results.”
“Yeah, I will.”
Agitated and fuming, Bert grunts and stomps his way to the prep station. He grabs a plastic apron, surgical mask, and gloves, then takes a deep breath being careful to take extra time to calm down. Not even Spooner can de-rail Bert from his professionalism. He’s never lost his cool.
Methodically he pushes you to the perfect spot in the middle of the room with the best light making you the center of attention, and he lifts the stained white cloth from your face and chest, then presses the dial on the radio next to the table. The ambiance of Beethoven's moonlight sonata reverberates the mood off my walls as he begins.
He examines your bruised left temple, stopping every 30 seconds to jot down notes and repeating them to himself. Fingers tactfully move down to your chin, lingering for a bit to verify your broken jaw. His hands move with grace onto the purple ring around your neck. Respectfully he moves your chestnut hair behind your collarbone for better inspection. More notes. I can hardly contain myself. I need to know what happened to your beautiful soul.
The blood, dirt, and skin under your fingernails show you didn't go without a fight.
Finally, his gloves, mask, and apron come off indicating a verdict. With depressed shoulders he walks towards the rotary phone on the wall, dialing each number slower than the next.
“I'm finished with my investigation. Spooner” His voice defeated.
“Her cause of death was—
Static over the intercom interrupts Bert's final words.
“Paging Dr. Monroe to I.C.U. Dr. Monroe to ICU.”
Leaning his forehead on the wall, Bert gently rests the phone on the receiver then drags himself to his desk, pulls the chair out, sinks into the leather, and weeps.
These are the days I wish I were the walls of ANY other room.
morgue’s perspective
I did not choose to be a hotel for the dead
the witness to the grotesque aftermath
of car accidents, murders, and heart attacks
cadavers covered in bandages come to visit the coroner
the corpses hide in my frigid walls
pull them out and take a look
they are just figures, fragments, shapes
of a lifetime that has ended
they examine, find the cause of death
but not the butterfly effect
that led to all of this
they find out the caliber
it was a revolver
the whole thing was truly a massacre
you should've seen it
I didn't
the souls that lived in these cages
are in oblivion or heaven
wherever we go after this
there are untold stories decaying
some written in a eulogy
that I won't hear
they speak in only murmurs here
the crowded space is vacant
opposite of many others, or so I am told
the widows, the lovers, the daughters
childhood friends, detectives, pallbearers
think of me as the end
something bitter, horrific, morbid
but I am the beginning of the postmortem
the layover between now and later
it's human nature, such is birth, such is death
nothing I say is unknown
one thing about your fate is certain
you will come here for you final vacation
before your remains become skeleton
the people come and mourn
at a funeral for you
it is like a birthday
they talk sweetly
like you were holy, like you were somebody's muse
their heads are clouded by nostalgia
when they think about you
they tiptoe through memories of the bad things you did
only talk about your beauty, your rosy cheeks
parts of you I do not see
to me, you are another guest in my home
uninvited, but you will not overstay your welcome
into the ground or the fire you go
I do not mean to be the harbinger
nor the orator of tragedy
I am sorry for my cold demeanor
but all I see
is the post-calamity damage
all the casualties
it's nothing cinematic
but I hold a certain gravitas
still, I am desensitized
body bags look like handbags or shopping bags
the lamentations sound like lullabies and showtunes
the dagger is already in the heart upon arrival
the weary-eyed come next
I do not see the happy
I am the place of death
May 2020
If walls could talk, these would scream.
There's something insane about this place. It walks a fuzzy line somewhere between abattoir and display counter.
These are dark days, and necromancy isn't quite dead.
For all the darkness, though, it's well lit.
Does the light stay on when the refrigerator is closed?
What if the whole room is the refrigerator?
Stainless steel has been the décor since before it was trendy. A dozen fridge doors, each 27 by 22, fill a wall. There's more just like it along other walls in other rooms. So what's special about this one?
Nothing at all. What's special are the refrigerated cargo containers taking up the entirety of the parking lot.
There's no room at the inn, and the stables are full, too, but unlike that fabled hotel about five miles from the Dead Sea, this is a place where not even Christ would stay.
Jesus wept, and Judas walks the streets coughing and sneezing and feeling fine. His thirty pieces of silver are really just the shiny doors of the morgue's cadaver cabinets, and his disciples do their own research.
If walls could talk, these would scream, because there's something insane about this place and these times.
The new normal
Hi, yea over here locker number 12, I bet you weren’t expecting a corpse to be introducing you to the morgue but hey your dead. Sorry I can be a bit up front, lets get a start on the tour shall we; locker number 13 right next to mine will be your new home for the time being spooky right, number 13. Maybe your death story will be just as unlucky as this number.
From what I can tell you can’t talk guess your death had to be a serial killer your lips are sewn tightly as if it had been down by a surgical tech. Well thats alright your not the only one locker number 2 is the same way, she was only 2… hence the locker, your going to meet a lot of people whether ghosts or actual corpses we all come and go, when is the answer we will never know. Continuing on with the tour let me take you to the embalming room, this is first room you’ll be taken too when they are ready for your funeral or if your going straight to the crematorium. It seems a little spooky but its ok, here on this table is where they will lay your body and remove any liquids and organs, making sure to leave you in a condition that will last long enough to stay nice for whatever your body shall go through. In this red box is where they dispose of any hazardous waste, hey you still got any hazards in there? No, well ok let’s continue going I’m going to turn off the lights now, but if you hear something ignore it, thats just lucy she wanders around in the dark sometimes loves to scare the morticians, sadly we can never keep one long enough. Now this is the abandoned hall, there were a couple accidents here things would fall off walls hitting the people that passed through here killing 2 people, so they decided to close it off. You can still see the blood splatter on the floors, they could never get it out fully which is surprising because they work with all that in the embalming room. A couple spirits roam through here at times they like to feel the energy that radiates off the room. They think if they can feel it long enough it might give them energy to keep looking for the end of the light. I don’t see it yet, most of us here don’t probably never will.
To your right, you will see some pictures and awards, surprisingly enough this morgue has been recognized for creepiest, horror walk through. Yes, this morgue disgustingly does haunted houses and because most of the spirits, and corpses hate it they gather the energy from the one and only night allowed to us and haunt more then ever. Throwing things, opening and closing freezer doors, and making these noises, noises that are so ungodly that even I freak out. Unfortunately for you, you wont be able to make a sound but you can lurk just like our dear lucy. I know most definitely you guys will become close. Nearing the end of the tour this is our spot, up ahead is the faculty lounge haha yeayea I know but we made it our spot since the morticians don’t really like being in here let me show you the inside. Now cmon don’t be scared its gonna be ok.
Close your eyes ok… SURPRISEE
It’s your welcoming part everyone came to say hi, now although you wont be here long tour apart of the family. I hope you enjoyed the tour, now enjoy the party.
these walls do have a heart.
If I could, I would tell you all the parts I remember about you;
how the smaller details helped shape exactly who you were,
and much more importantly,
who you almost could have been.
I would tell you how much I miss you each and every day.
It is a very empty feeling, the one I have without you.
Everything is...cold. Even more so than before.
It's not as if you brought much warmth right as you arrived.
Your blood had been drained, your organs disposed of as donations
or...well, sorry to say it, biohazardous waste.
You know, the usual morbid schematics and mechanics.
As usual, I saw people coming in and out--
prepping you, cleaning you,
whispering and...singing to you.
I'm used to the sponges and needles and eventual tears.
The singing was new.
They didn't mention much about you.
They didn't do much other than stroke your face and sing.
Each stroke highlighted something different
as I observed from all around in utmost curiosity.
Their finger gently traced the blonde tips of your eyelashes,
(your eyes were closed and I couldn't help but wonder...
just what color did they use to be?)
the half-smirk indents on the right side of your lips,
(you must've looked glorious when you smiled,
from what I could catch in the echoes of your grins)
your eyebrows from beginning to end,
(you must've furrowed them constantly,
perhaps when you talked about something you had read)
Were you a reader? Was your eyesight strained?
Is that why they traced your forehead, the lines connecting and
leading down to the tip of your nose?
How often were you kissed?
How often did you let them hold your hand?
How often did they pause to see you standing right in front of the sun,
their hearts almost stopping as you practically...glowed?
They may not have said it before.
They may not have had the courage.
But I hope you know, just as they felt, just as they were singing songs
while secretly thinking about your name,
that they loved you.
And I love you now and forever,
just the
same.
Dear Paris M,
I hope this letter finds you well and settled in your new home. The appointments you mentioned in your last letter sound fascinating. J'adorerais avoir autant de beaux jouets. Pardon my French.
Doctors here have yet to boil their instruments with any regularity, so I expect an influx of plagued visitors any day now. It means more mess for me, but I do enjoy having a full house, every room filled, and the melted ice dripping from the cabinets.
As yet, our surgery only allows family to visit, but I hear from Frankfurt that you are the envy of Europe due to the observation lounge. Who would have guessed you'd be as big an attraction as the Tiergarten? After a near-century of distinction, I think Schonbrunn will understand and gracefully pass the torch.
I will say, I don't think I would much enjoy having so many Quicks rambling through my halls and disturbing my guests. But, you have always been a bit.. avante garde. Give my best to Saint-Antoine. Retirement can be frightening, and so little remains of the old ways. Not sure the modern age is for me. I grow tired of all the changes. I finally understand what Jianyang tried to tell me all those years ago.
Don't mind my grumpiness. I look forward to hearing more about your adventures.
Your friend always,
Pergamum
Exhaustion of the Heart
Tik...Toc...Tik...Toc...
The clock on my wall is my only friend here, throughout years and years it is the only honest thing that I can count on. Through its simple sound; it comforts me with the thought, time will pass. This I have always known however, it has taken me a while to accept.
I have had many loves to look after, all of one liniage and all with an aroma of regret. Wine glasses turned to whiskey bottles turned to beer and back into wine every 60 years or so like clockwork. And through the sound of days ticking by I have come to believe that my loves hate me. I reek of the one thing they most desire and serve as a reminder of the time that has passed. It is not their fault, I do not blame them, they are constantly met with peaceful faces and when I look into their eyes I see a deep longing.
Funny how they help so many others with peace, but struggle with their own.
And when their desires are granted be it by their hands or someone else's I cradle them deep in my bosom and shower them with the love they have shown to so many before them. Time does not pass for those in my care but it does still pass, and there has not been a new bottle opened yet. Only dust and sheets are left for my old creaking walls and I...am content with that.