The Strange Little Tales

Okay, confession time. I AM ANGUS MONSHROUD!!!!!! I wrote/did everything attributed to him, and he was, in fact, my original penname. There is no separate entity that is Angus Monshroud, only me, the mind behind him. Confession over. And now for something completely different, but the reason for this confession.

The Strange Little Tales
By Angus Monshroud

Larry The Conformist

This is the tale of Larry. He is just like everyone else on this little rock of a planet. He listens to his teachers without question. He is never (gasp!) creative. He is a total jerk. Suddenly he died a terrible death of shock when something interesting happened in this story.

Sally

Sally is a good little girl. She swears when her teachers can’t hear.(like a good little girl) She listens to Britney Spears. (like a good little girl) She dresses like a harlot. (like a good little girl) Wait a second, wasn’t she supposed to be a good little girl?

Joe The Psychopath

This is the tale of poor insane little Joe. He is a psychopath. His favorite weekend activities are polishing his weapons and watching slasher movies. His teacher is afraid of him. Eventually he was committed to an insane asylum and died there at the age of either 84 or 48.

Mary Ann

Mary Ann is a descendant of Mary Antoinette. She thinks herself above the common people, so she never compromises. She is very bad at history, and therefore has never studied Mary Antoinette. No one likes her much, except Louis. Eventually they got married and were guillotined for no apparent reason.

Poor Little Sammy

This is the tragic tale of poor little Sammy. He lives in a tragic little house on a tragic little street. He lives a tragic little life. He never thought his tragic little life would ever get any better. As it turns out, he was right.

A Despicable Person

Edweena was a despicable person. She frequently tormented her little brother Albert. She shaved the cats and glued little pictures of Marilyn Manson all over them. (If that’s not cruel I don’t know what is.) She broke her mother’s vase and blamed it on her cousin Edward. She eventually disappeared without a trace. Albert and Edward were overjoyed.

Albert’s Mishap

Albert loved to ride his bike. He could do all kinds of tricks. He never wore a helmet. His mother said he would horribly maim himself if he was not careful. He was not careful in the slightest. One day he did a trick, fell, and horribly maimed himself. MORAL: Don’t horribly main yourself.

Angus The Oddball

This is the tale of Angus. He is very different. He does not dress, think, eat, or breathe like anyone else. His teachers talk about him as “that weird kid”. He never smiles. But he is the happiest kid around, because he is creative. Everyone else hates him. What did you expect?

Don't Play With Matches

Don't Play With Matches

Oh, listen to me, and I'll tell you a tale
A story to make mothers weep and children wail
About little Harriet, who didn't take care
To keep a lit match away from her hair

Her mother went out walking, and left the girl behind
But not before she told the child "now you better mind
Don't fright the cat, or kill the rats, but most of all my dear
Of matches, fiery matches must you have most fear"

So beware, meine kleine Kinder
You could get burnt into a cinder
Don't play with matches, little dears
They are not for your years
you could get burnt to a pile of ashes
So never, little children, play with matches

Harriet was a good little girl, she bade her Mother go
For she had heard the tales, and did the dangers know
Of all the fiery flamey things that could burn up the thatches
But still she reach-ed out her hand, and picked up the box of matches

She struck one quickly, and it made a little spark
She told herself she'd done it to ward off the dark
But oh, it caught, and oh, it smoked, and oh, it burned and popped
Until the raging fire was to large to be stopped

So beware, meine kleine Kinder
You could get burnt into a cinder
Don't play with matches, little dears
They are not for your years
you could get burnt to a pile of ashes
So never, little children, play with matches

Harriet did scream and cry, as the flames took hold
And she did scream and she did wail, that she had been so bold
To disobey her mother dear, and burn a little match
For now it had burnt her up, and caught onto the thatch

Her mother walked along the way, up to their little house
And she did find it ashes there, but quiet as a mouse
But for two little cats, weeping in the ashes
And sobbing, sobbing, 'Never play with matches!'

So beware, meine kleine Kinder
You could get burnt into a cinder
Don't play with matches, little dears
They are not for your years
you could get burnt to a pile of ashes
So never, little children, play with matches

And as the little cats wept their tears away
Her mother dear wept with them, and you could hear her say
'Oh Harriet, you naughty girl, you've been burnt to ashes,
So never, never, children, play with matches!"

Three Sick Little Stories

The Mystical Fairy

Once upon a time, there was a mystical fairy. The mystical fairy decided to become a porn star because it was bored with its paltry and meaningless existence. It contracted HIV from a fellow actor and died a horrible death because its royalty checks were sent to Peter Berlin by mistake.
Moral: Kill Peter Berlin before you become a mystical fairy porn star.

***

The Beautiful Princess

Once upon a time there was a beautiful princess, and she lived in a magical kingdom. One day the kingdom was invaded by evil republicans. The princess and her lesbian rock star girlfriend decided to commit suicide and lived happily ever after in the underworld.
Moral: make sure your girlfriend is a rock star.

***

The Little Boy Who Lived In An Enchanted Forest

Once upon a time there was a little boy who lived in an enchanted forest. He had everything a little boy could want, but he felt strangely empty inside. Then a strange middle aged man came through the forest and convinced him to join NAMBLA.He lived hppily ever after with his new 47 year old lover.
Moral: Don't live in an enchanted forest.

For My Fallen Angel

Dedicated to a girl who is hopefully reading this. If you are, L.P., I love you.

For My Fallen Angel

Your storm cloud eyes are imprinted in my heart
Brands like Dante's inferno, impossible to forget
Strong, and a little sad
Like the sea at night
Churning eternally with an unnameable beauty

Your Valkyrie face is formed in the swirling surface of the moon
Gazing down upon the darkened earth
You bring a little bit of light into my dark and heavy heart

The blazing stars of the boundless Heavens are envious
Of this woman, who I could scarce call a mortal
This earth-bound goddess
Whose ocean eyes and twilight smile
Outshine every star
And make the lovely moon grow sickly with jealousy

The wind rustles in the uncertain treetops
And in it's whispers I hear your voice
Speaking everything and nothing
A thousand words and a thousand mysteries
In this unearthly music

My muse eternal
I love you

Blood Orange

Blood Orange

I struck a match one quiet soot stained burnt evening in a darkened room
And it burned clearly, brightly convinced of its existence
As its head and body shrivelled, I stared at it and wept
To the bitter raindrops of an out of tune piano
That stood nearby, weeping itself to pieces and discord
Its keys falling dejected in a clanging heap like bones of some great primeval protector
Long ago its fearsome charms disintegrated with its strings
Leaving this sobbing shell crumbling beneath my gaze
As I strike another match to light my way as I leave the room

I walked down the heavy sun wearied streets one restless sweaty evening
My feet carried me out past the sordid river, full of tears and broken promises
And I walked on silently for a little while
Then I came upon three wise men, discombobulated and annoyed
Seeking for their sacrificial rites
One of them saw me, and he raised his smoky hand in a disjointed greeting
he called me closer, and bid me hear not what he would say
But I listened
And he spoke of many things, things I knew and did not know but all seemed the same
Then he gave me a blood orange and I walked on

I stared at the orange, round and nondescript in my shaking and unstable hand
It smiled back at me, its red and lusty teeth a shock in its pale sunset skin
I looked at it again and the expression changed
From the sanguine smile of a childish warrior who takes a rapturous delight in every kill
To the contemplative sensual lips of a lover wrapped in lustful indecision
Her eyes wandering to some new and steel hearted plaything
In a cold and envious night
But still her moth eaten heart is lonely and she longs for the release the swirling blackness of the night
And curling redness of this fatal orange may bring
And I stare at the orange
And it stares back, unmoving and alone

Matchsmoke Dreams

Matchsmoke Dreams

A black nailed hand reaches out in the aching white light
Clawing, grasping at the fragile nicotine stained angels on their tenuous strings
The seraphim swing back and forth, like avenging, unsure pendulums
Sweeping away all sorrow with their crippling doubt, they sway and shiver as they dance before an all too eager
Electric chair wreathed in Christmas lights, sparkling with uniform malice
And sliding away into a damp and soggy theatre

The radio is singing quietly in the somnambulant distance of time, disconnected and lonely
Longing for release from its unchosen position as a conduit of hope and tears
The wail of rainbows, and the shriek of disconnected windows
It sleeps in uneasy silence, unable to bear the void where other beings once drained their raven pecked hearts
And then the hand descends to awaken this channel, the link to the world beyond our tawdry sorrows
And it shakes in utter revulsion as another stream of tears pours out its battered speakers

In the silver twilight there stands a broken gypsy caravan, mutilated and concave with years of persecution
An old woman sits on the steps, her tarot cards fluttering in an anxious dance beneath her weary scarves
I walk to her and she looks at me, her eyes telling me stories, nightmares and fantasies beyond my comprehension
She grins haphazardly, her smile dangling under years of heavy, dream state pain and void
Another time, another place, another paradigm, unhinged and discordant has weakened her simple joy in the worlds of men
Her seams come apart, and she spills a thousand years of strange and deranged histories and tales, people
Battles, a thousand epics and odysseys, a thousand yarns of love lost and won, disconnected and yet all the same
Her tales flow from beneath her lurking scarves, and the tarot cards swim within them
Distracted and engulfed

A distracted coffee house dream lies shattered in the drunken streetlight glow
The owner staggers like a broken marionette, spinning in enraged circles and twisting in comic agony
Wrenched from comfortable darkness into the harsh and grating pupil-less spotlights
Their hooded eyelids swimming over the last late great Greta Garbo movie star picture on a magazine
Sobbing faded stage-blood tears into her coffee
And watching them fall into the black of a material world

I was watching on a cold Sunday night when the last swank-eyed just died silver tongue high strung fast walker big talker camera stalker
Movie idol big shot smoke pot robot lost his head and hands in the avalanche of verdant philosophies and scandals
I was singing in the last band big hand last show let's go hotel bonfire rock star flashy car implosion explosion fire and brimstone quartet of horsemen
Pestilence and death sang backup while the cancers of a thousand nations played a light-show off their skulls

Your eyelids are heavy, and you don't remember how you got here, but you're afraid to ask
You slid through the pulsating door into a nightmare of flesh and blood, throbbing and holding you enthralled
Enraptured by the sorrow and heartbreak
Caught up in a twirling wanton dance, you spun out of control and into another shadow cardboard cutout cop out show off poster child
I don't know you anymore, and you've forgotten my name, my face, my race, my game

The tenth muse is sweeping up the broken and inebriated glasses on the sigh-stained floor
Her tears spatter the remnants of her sisters, crucified and dismembered, their limbs glow brightly as non-Aryan Lampshades, their tattoos infused with thousands of unfilled names, unspoken words, silver bullets
Eyes like marbles, rolling past the indifferent martyrs in their borrowed feathers, sliding blithely through a thousand scenes
Hands like shells, cracked, the ocean running out of them, sluggish and defiled, unused to its new prisons
And I sit alone
With the last Greta Garbo Vogue picture camera chased good side photograph in my disconnected smoke-stained
Hands and eyes, tearstained and alone, disconnected and unnerved

Auf Asche

Mother I'm sorry but I have to go
I have to take my last bow and end the show
Make my last confession and be free
Please, Mother, forgive me

Auf Asche, auf Asche
I lie my severed head
On ashes, on ashes
I lie, for I am dead
Auf Asche, auf Asche
The curtain lowers soon
On ashes, on ashes
Grant me one final boon
Auf Asche, auf Asche
Let my soul go up in smoke
On ashes, on ashes
Give me one last hope

Father I'm sorry but I have failed
I have to mount my cross and there be nailed
Ascend my pyre and scream to be free
Please, Father, burn me

Auf Asche, auf Asche
I lie my severed head
On ashes, on ashes
I lie, for I am dead
Auf Asche, auf Asche
The curtain lowers soon
On ashes, on ashes
Grant me one final boon
Auf Asche, auf Asche
Let my soul go up in smoke
On ashes, on ashes
Give me one last hope

Children I'm sorry but I can't stop
I have to see it through, jump from the top
Climb the scaffold in hopes to be free
Please, children, remember me

Auf Asche, auf Asche
I lie my severed head
On ashes, on ashes
I lie, for I am dead
Auf Asche, auf Asche
The curtain lowers soon
On ashes, on ashes
Grant me one final boon
Auf Asche, auf Asche
Let my soul go up in smoke
On ashes, on ashes
Give me one last hope

Darling I'm sorry but I have to die
There's no way I could stay and lie
To you, to all, to them, to me
Please, darling, forgive me

Auf Asche, auf Asche
I lie my severed head
On ashes, on ashes
I lie, for I am dead
Auf Asche, auf Asche
The curtain lowers soon
On ashes, on ashes
Grant me one final boon
Auf Asche, auf Asche
Let my soul go up in smoke
On ashes, on ashes
Give me one last hope

Erato

Erato

O, nameless temptress who I know so well
Curling madness in my very being
You are my absinthe
My stupefying liquor
Distilled from rankest poison

I tried so hard to forget you
With your coiling tentacles or cloying loveliness
But again the madness strikes
And I am powerless in your
Merciless arms

O, perfect being risen from the ashes
Long white hands curled in my hair again
With your tender tortures
I have no choice
But to lose myself in your venom

You are far from faithful
There are hundreds like me
Wild-eyed beggars at your feet
Shrieking as your talons dig deeper
With unending beauty

O, intoxicating strumpet of virtue
Writhing in pleasure in the arms of another doomed scribbler
Twisting in pleasure as ink sprays from their
Slashed and wounded veins
That you bit through with rapturous fury

You devour the dying souls of a thousand
As I kiss you once more
I tried to escape
But you held me tight against you
And whispered another dirge in my ear

O, endless mistress of disintegrated charms
Doomed sonnet I cringe to write
You are my muse
My sickly inspiration, burning feverishly
In my stormy eyes