'6 Foot 3'......[long; Scary; Gross; Murder] - Poem by Bri Edwards
I'll tell you a crime story that you've never heard,
But first you'll have to promise to not spread the word.
It started many years ago on the Massachusetts coast.
Most of those who know of it are now themselves ghosts.
It is a murder story frightful and most ghastly.
If you mention it to the police they'll laugh, and YOU may be the victim, lastly.
After high school in the 60's I attended Boston College.
I went there for the social life, and to gain some more knowledge.
While there I joined a fraternity made up mostly of jocks.
Initiation week they made us attend classes with no shoes or sox.
I'm getting off the track a bit as does happen often.
I think too many drugs in the 60's caused my brain to soften.
A member of my fraternity was a B.C. basketball star;
He was scouted by the pros and it was felt he'd go far.
He was 6 foot 7 and his meals were supersized.
He was my closest friend and I enjoyed looking up at his eyes.
One night in the off season he went drinking at a bar.
He left the joint at 2 A.M. but he didn't get far.
He was found by a sanitation worker early the next morn.
His skull had been bashed in; his massive throat was well-torn.
It was a campus and Boston sensation, a sad one it was true.
I was crushed by his passing and from college I withdrew.
I had lots of money from my grandma; I did not need a job.
I moved to Miami and became a beach bum, not a slob.
Within three years two more murders were added to this story.
The descriptions of the bodies found were EXTREMELY gory.
One, a 6-4 white male prostitute, had been eviscerated.
The police photos of a black female socialite,6-3, were XXX-rated.
My parents lived in Santa Monica and insisted I move home.
I settled in their guest house but at times I still did roam.
I met and dated a wealthy,6-5, fashion model………
The largest piece of her flesh found would fit inside a large bottle.
I started, then to see a shrink; I worried I'd go crazy.
I'm telling you my story's true, though at times details are hazy.
I spent ten years in analysis, which cost a lot of money,
But I believe it helped restore my faith and my outlook was more-sunny.
Then one summer I did Rio Mardi Gras; it was my BEST vacation yet.
But back home I learned my doctor had been found in his red Corvette.
What was left of him, I should say. I hesitate to here linger.
He'd been shot twelve times and was missing his left ring finger.
His skull and most of his ribs had been busted.
The once-shiny car had been burned, and his body was all-crusted.
By the way my doctor was 6 foot 4; could that be a clue?
I then checked into an upscale nuthouse for a month or two.
I was there on my own accord. My parents thought I was 'shopping'.
The docs did not believe my stories; my anxiety was not stopping.
So I moved back to the guest house. 'Mom and Dad, did you miss me? '
Fat chance! They were busy with their lives, though once my mom did kiss me.
I found another psychiatrist, this one of short stature.
I met a pretty clerk at Starbucks and at the altar I did catch her.
The marriage lasted all of six months. No pregnancy, thank God.
I had it annulled, gave her twenty grand, but I still miss her bod.
My weekly doctor's visits went as well as I'd expected.
I tried a run for Santa Monica mayor but did not get elected.
Two more murders in my story just happened this year.
They were the murders of my parents for which I shed no tear.
It was an inconvenience, though, cleaning up the mess.
The police photographer threw up; ……hardened detectives cried no less.
I had to hire TWO murder cleanup crews. Their bills were a sin.
But still, afterward, I found pieces in the bushes, which made me grin.
There were other bodies I now realize I've forgotten to mention.
I can see from the look in your eyes I've gotten your attention.
All the victims were at least 6-3 (my mom WAS 6 foot 4, my dad was 6-7) .
Maybe all are gazing down now at us from a tall-people's heaven.
My doctor says I'm the murderer; she told me for a fee.
I'm really glad I met you; you're pretty as can be.
I'll bet you're as tall as me; I am 6 foot 3 inches tall.
It's getting dark and I love you. Let's drive to the mall.
Poet's Notes about The Poem
added May 14,2014:
i just read a really gory poem by PH member John Westlake.
Fatal Self surgery
I played a surgeon for a fatal five minutes
securing the room for my own self operation
wiping away all the tears from my eyes
before I cut myself wide open
to let the life out
The scalpel’s blade stung on it’s decent
slicing through the skin and muscles
worse than a thousand bees the pain
but I kept going until I reached the end
The blood poured out through the opening I made
creating a slippery puddle on the floor
but I had not finished yet
I was after the heart
Feeling both faint and dizzy
I ripped out my sternum and ribs
my hands are slippery with all the blood
but it only delays me for a minute
before they are all in a heap with the rest
First the lungs and then the heart
are added to the pile on the table
there seems nothing special about my heart
dull red and slowly dying
when once it shone
and was filled with your love
The final acts are too much
my body crumples to the floor
too late to save me now
even if you wanted to
the thing is that none of it even mattered
I died the day you walked out of the door
Submitted: Friday, May 09,2014
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