The "Book Of Styx II" continues the adventures and exploits of eddy styx. "Book II" further examines, in poetry, the life and times of this madman and modern day "Jack the Ripper". He is a friendless loner with murder and mayhem in his heart and soul. Beginning in early childhood, his tree grew bent and twisted. This book takes his fantasies a step further down the road of creatively expressive insanity. Allow your senses to gorge on the vivid descriptions of his various delights and torments.

Book Of Styx II

By eddy styx

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2012 eddy styx
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4678-6979-9

Chapter One

      First Strike

    Roaming the alleys
    I spied a young man
    in his early twenties
    carrying gasoline.
    Noticing the sloshing of the can,
    his furtiveness dragged me after him.
    keeping to the shadows,
    I trailed at a distance,
    moving when he moved.
    He was soon joined
    by a red tabby cat,
    who wound about his legs
    begging for attention.
    I identify with cats
    going about their
    own prowling business.
    Watching from the shadows
    horror gripped my heart.
    Pouring gas on the cat,
    he nimbly lit a match,
    but the cat fled before
    the lit match could land.
    Instinctively I jumped,
    my bare fist landing on jaw;
    he crumpled to the cement.
    Dousing him with the
    remains of liquid in the can,
    I awaited his return
    to the conscious world.
    When I saw him awaken
    his eyes full of terror,
    I dropped a match,
    springing back
    out of harm's way,
    as his body caught fire
    in a violent blaze;
    He lit up the night sky,
    casting his flailing,
    ghastly shadow on the sheds.
    The next day's paper
    told of a suspected arson who died
    accidentally by his own hand.
    A virgin no longer,
    first kill has been made
    for defense of a cat.
    I am, somehow, unsatisfied,
    For I am a cold-hearted killer
    not this thing of unbridled passion.


      Awakenings

    All winter my true nature lay
    dreaming among the warm-blooded bodies of
    my many memories,
    waiting for this moment of Spring
    to arrive and revive me with the scent
    of fresh prey.
    Being a creature of many disciplines,
    I have learned to school my emotions
    behind a colorless mask.
    I have my many rules to observe,
    and I am nothing, if not constant.
    I never hunt in the Winter months,
    for there are too many variables
    and frailties of body: a sniffle
    or sneeze will give intent away in
    a heartbeat.
    Snowy footprints would
    destroy my illusion as shadow.
    Still I have been amused by the
    other school of thought; to incorporate
    ice in the art of the kill, because
    the evidence melts.


      Connoisseur

    I have always found a fragile beauty
    in the subtle deformity when it is present
    in the fairer sex ...
    a slight clubfoot, one breast discernibly
    smaller than the other, or one blue eye
    and the other eye green or brown.
    Often, on a misty Spring night, having
    happened upon such a dainty maiden, I
    will let her go, tipping my hat to her shadow,
    declining to sip from that glass whilst, instead,
    savoring another special bouquet
    of seasoned claret.


      Ghoul

    A grey grimace stole across his ashen lips
    as the hour struck twelve and the stalker awakened.
    The desires of those who hunt him await the discovery
    of yet another victim, setting them on the trail, afresh.
    In their secret hearts, he was the continuous pulsation
    of life's blood, causing them to quicken,
    sustaining them with the demanding lusts of his soul.


      Blood Summons

    Garnet beauty issues its liquid invitation,
    sometimes, calling from miles away.
    The summons offers enticement to my inclinations.
    Lust rolls over me like the chaotic advance
    of a lynch mob, intending to overwhelm my senses.
    On the scent, soon I will be fully caught up in its power,
    helpless to break the erotic spell of my lust for blood,
    until unrestrained, I strike again ...


      Dark Moon

    being not fond of moonlight
    when I ply my trade,
    I tend toward the filmy
    veil of shadows and
    the dark moon mysteries.
    my cat-like night vision
    keeps me on target,
    bringing me to your
    irresistible circular stair,
    where I, the candle snuffer,
    will extinguish your fragile flame
    and shed a heartfelt tear,
    as I witness the fading embers
    and the one pure moment
    of created dying art


      Politicide

    Composition by design
    the compost heap
    of Charon's Keep
    heaping guano on the stack.
    A marriage joined
    by fecal matter.
    Entwined decrepitude
    of nature's refuse.
    Composites ...
    combines
    Praetorian wing
    with
...