another reblog of my short story for the season of the witch and the rising dead…

Happy Reading…

A Short Horror Story.
       I don’t remember what happened before, no clue as to who I was, what I was, but afterwards, everything that happened afterwards is a completely different story, because when you open your eyes after death, you discover a whole other way of living.
Tick tock, tick tock.

        There is darkness mostly, she left me no eyes to escape the blindness but I can see when I want, when the need fills me. I see shape in sound and smell, these are my senses now, she left me those. Guilt, regret, remorse, those weaknesses have no part in what I’ve become. I’m no longer accountable to the standards Men hold as law. I am beyond law and now, as I’m technically dead, I’m beyond Man.
Tick tock, tick tock.

        “I remade you, better than before. You were a drunk, a drug addict with no direction. No one gave a shit for you. You would’ve died one day, I just gave that day a name. You should be grateful, I’ve given you something greater than life; indestructible, eternal death among the living,” she declared that day, the first day of my everlasting existence, as I realised the horror of what she‘d done. I wasn’t human anymore, this was true. I would be unbeatable, also true. But she hadn’t given me eternal death, it was eternal damnation.
        I recognised her voice from somewhere before death, a sound bite on TV, a ranting about experimentation, radiation, creation; bringing heaven to earth. “I’ll build a world that will never need creation again, all will be eternal,” she’d bragged. I remember that. I’ll always remember that. She won’t, not anymore.
Tick tock, tick tock.

        When I first awoke, to her recreation, I felt no pain at all, that came later, when I came to understand what she’d made of me. She was my Frankenstein, she’d remoulded me from her miscreant mind. “Without sight you’ll see much better,” she whispered to my naked form, strapped to a gurney, as forceps wrenched my eyes from their sockets. “The tongue just teases you with taste,” she insisted, “this’ll teach you to taste from within,” and she snipped the tongue from my mouth with a blade, severing it from service with a single slice. Afterwards, she stitched it to the back of my neck, to remind me of all that was now behind me.
        I was not a body of blood anymore, my veins had been drained, dried out like taunt twine that tore through my flesh from the inside out. My innards had been expunged, discarded, floor fodder for vermin to devour and they did, nightly, as I lay there, a monster metamorphosing. In my chest, empty of all organs except my heart, a machine of amorality maintained me, pumping a self-sustainable liquid through the little that remained of me; limbs that had been ravaged, a hand severed and replaced with a scythe, legs hacked at the knees, mounted on metal spikes while my manhood was slit, sliced and stuffed with the slivering tongue of a serpent, still hissing. I was a despicable demon, an envoy of evil, a punishment for a world that had dismissed her dreams of total autonomy as nothing more than an inhuman, unjustifiable, godless existence. I was her retribution. She believed I’d bring them all down for her but she misjudged who was master. A monster knows no master. A monster needs no master. Monster is master.
Tick tock, tick tock.

        Monster let her believe she had control while she trained me, taught me to walk, to hunt, to appreciate the divinity of my own damnation. Monster appeared grateful to his creator and her darkness, monster acted thankful to his creator and her inventiveness until one day when monster stabbed his spikes into his creator’s feet as she leaned against the wall, smiling at the completion of her own genius. Monster smiled as his scythe slit her from nipple to neck and his one remaining hand reached inside her and disgorged the heart from her blood bathed body before her face even had time to register fear. Monster left her there, in her darkness, in that heartless body, further fodder for the vermin who’d already begun to sniff her out.

        That was 4 years ago. I can finally admit I’m grateful to her. I’ve lived more in death than I ever could in life. I don’t need food or drink, don’t shit or sleep. I exist as if everyday were the first, do you understand? Can you understand me now, now that I’m standing behind you, so close that your skin prickles with fear as I sliver my scythe around your neck?
        You came looking for me, didn’t you? Foolishly searching the shadows for the monster you thought was myth. Well, now you’re truly the fool because this monster is no myth, nor a white knight. I am the Blind Assassin, devoid of compassion. She removed that from me when she raided my body of blood and being. Do you hear the ticking clock? Tick tock, tick tock. It’s inside me. It goes where I go. It counts down humanity while I continue on, slaying it. I feel nothing for you people anymore, nothing. And in a moment, you’ll feel nothing too.

        And he was right. In an instant blood spewed from the gash in the human’s neck and splattered onto the glasses that covered Monster’s eyeless sockets and down onto his tongueless, grinning mouth as the clock continued counting…
Tick tock, tick tock.

    He’d killed his creator but he couldn’t extinguish the desire for revenge that she’d transplanted into his useless, still beating, eternally damned heart.


All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly


Reblogging this old poem of mine, tis the season after all, Happy Halloween…



A haunting is happening in this house that holds me
a sinister spirit that sighs in the shadows,
a feeling of fear is feeding on frenzy
as it ghoulishly groans and gasps from its gallows

A breath is baying by this bed that now binds me
with its fetid foulness that’s flits by my face,
a mischievous menace that will not let me be
the already dead splitting time and space

A demon’s devising a death to destroy me
his clutch a cold and callous caress,
while no face nor fingers nor form can I see
there’s dread in this dark I cannot suppress

A sour scent stains the sheets where I slumber
reeking of rank and rotten revulsions,
it exhales a heinous, horrible, hunger
demonic desires and cursed compulsions

A miserable monster while mumbling madness
is slapping and sliding something sharp on my skin,
between life and death there’s not much to divide us
the grind to be good and seduction of sin

A haunting is happening in this house that holds me
a sinister spirit groaning from its gallows,
a face is now forming and two eyes can I see
as I’m dragged into darkness to be sliced in the shadows.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Published: Nous sommes Paris, Poetry Anothology


Just back this weekend from work and joyous jet lag in Shanghai and discovered a real treat when I returned; the proof manuscript for the Paris poetry anthology, entitled #NousSommesParis being published by Eyewear Publishing this November, marking the one-year anniversary of the Paris attacks, which will include my poem Slow Moving Sorrow.

Truly honored to be featured in a book whose subject is the very sacred ground upon which I walk everyday.

Will remind you all of its release later in November…



On pressing parades
pedestrian pass on motors,
on mass, in autos,
under umbrellas,
in downpours of flashing lights
of signs I cannot identify,
on roads that have no rules,
with crossings that heed no caution
for those crossing, the tens crossing,
the hundreds crossing,
the thousands trying to get through
with rising intonations 
to parks, to stop on mass,
to push against the air,
to cast shapes,
slow moving shapes,
motions that move into the morning
still in the making
while they are waking
and I wander the streets
in search of lost sleeps,
in search of understanding
the red dragon and his breath that steals
from sight a sky I never see
and yet there is light, electric light,
burning down from buildings, blinding buildings,
as if to shadow all that was once natural,
all that hints at traditional,
and that still echoes with strings of beauty,
stranded streets that should be seen
but are shaded by the gleam
of glorious Gucci and pray to Prada
and all the rest of western delusions
that silence the former oriental infusions.
I am the white man,
the foreign man
trying to find meaning in the madness,
in the movement, clambering to catch comprehension
with nothing but chopsticks
that fail to find favour with my fingers
in this land where the food tastes delicious
and the streets smell atrocious.
Xièxiè and Nín hǎo are the crutches I cling to,
to clamber through,
but, like the chopsticks,
they are too fragile to be stable
and too fickle to be favourable
and I am clearly too used to home
to be truly objectionable.

All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Audio version available on Soundcloud:






Last week I was in Shanghai for work and met jet lag straight on, here are some of the pictures from that week, including 6am walks through the city while it was waking and I was searching for sleep…


The mountains of the clouds


The customary gas mask in your room for emergencies, wrapped in a velvet pouch 

img_4120Jing’an Temple


Waiting to something to clean


The new climbing over the old




Morning rituals



Nanjing Road



Dali time


Start of the morning commute


new mode of transport 




Japanese dining


Concept store Corso Como




Passion Fruit Cocktail in the Coconut Paradise Restaurant 


new buildings and old ways


The People’s Square


Red Queue and phone box




Market streets







Smoke and Flowers in the floor


Funky food plates and twisting cutlery 





Da Dong restaurant and our own Duck being sliced






The Dragon’s Breath stealing the view on the Bund


The year of the rain


Old Town umbrellas 


City God Temple of Shanghai







And ending with a little consideration for the bottom…

All Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly




I read you
through pictures,
past and fading,
fast forgetting what it was
to be free,
what it was to be healthy.
I read you in
leaves that fall
from twisted trees
when summer is still shining,
when autumn has not yet begun,
when seasons no longer come when expected.
I read you
in rivers that are rising
and seas no longer salty
but bashed by bitter tears
the years have pushed with pollution
in place of finding a solution.
I read you
through hope no longer healthy,
no longer worthy to the wealthy
who’ve drained you dry.
There is no blood in stone,
there is no money making motive left unturned
but we are turned,
but we are undone,
have undone this wizened world
and home is now hardly a harbour
but a broken boat
waiting to be tossed from a world
once known, once cherished,
now blown to bits,
scattered fragments
like falling leaves,
like rising rivers,
like discoloured waters,
like extinct animals,
fading in pictures of what beauty once was
before man made demands without counting the cost.

All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Audio version available on Soundcloud:



Soft skin, like silk, draws hands caress
in darkness as we warp and weft
our fragile frames in gyrating games,
crisscrossing lust with lies and trusting thighs,


We are bruised blankets baying
on beds of yesterday’s toils;
cotton soils and sweaty spoils.

Silk, like soft skin, slips from touch
too swiftly, too much sewn between seams
emblazoned with who we have become
and who we had before; I held his hand
in a taxi while thinking of another,

long departed.

We kiss alone but there is an orchestrated
orgy of others in every embrace, like a hunger
that cannot be abated, like a stain that cannot
be shifted from sheets we once saturated.

In the darkness, beneath the hands caress,
on silk, soft like skin, so supple, we slip
into gullible folds of flesh, not quite fresh,
trying to spell new names on withered frames
from those left over letters of old flames.

All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Audio version available on SoundCloud: