Ligature Point

A nightmare, a night storm rages
Rattling poets in cell block cages...

And so it begins, pen and paper and then the pandering to the pixels. It's not the writing that's frightening, it's the constant search for inspiration, beyond the mental constipation. The ideas and the words, all dragged from within, the ending, the middle and from where to begin. It's all in the head and so is the dread.
Outside: The hail and rain is cascading down from a summer storm's lugubrious low pressure, the thunder rolling and crashing, as the transient lightning is flashing.
Inside: Inside a poet's weary head, there is nothing but cataclysmic cliches and the numbness that's been left behind by that which has fled.
Feed off the storm, the poet thinks, embrace the outside rage to quell the inner turmoil. Cliches, cliches everywhere, but not a drop of ink... is what the poet thinks.
'Fuck it,' uttered, as thoughts run amok. 'Fuck the insipid deep shit, let's write something really fucking gory, a sicko badass horror story!'
Hail rattles on the window as the wind howls like a banshee.
Let's have something akin to King and Herbert, maybe a crazy fucking clown killing kids with poisoned sherbet... or a psychopath stalking couples and spiking their drinks, is what the poet thinks. A psychopath who gives you no hope, just a ligature point and the noose at the end of a rope...

...maybe not, stick to what you know...
The poet shifts uneasily on a chair; outside the storm rages in the electrified air.
The block is unflinching, it's solid, the verse a curse, the rhyme a crime.
Ditch the pen and paper, maybe scratch some ink later, is what the poet thinks. AC/DC for the PC, that's what's needed. Press a switch and light the screen, outside the banshees scream.

The gale whips through concrete courses
Gathering strength for its evil forces...

The weather is a horror of symbolism and has been used too many times before, is what the anxious poet thinkety, thinkety, TH!NKS, staring eyes eventually succumbing to the inevitable blinks. The poet is so tired, head pounding after too much thinking, always thinking. Heavy eyelids and the poet is close to napping... on the window, outside, is that a finger tapping? Or the hail from Hades borne by the beast of the gale?
Lightning flashes, the power crashes, a PC fades to dim. The poet thinks this is slightly scary and close to grim.
Thunder rolls with the next electric bolt, as one, conjoint; walls and windows shaking and illuminating the place of a ligature point.
'Fuck it,' uttered, as thoughts run amok. 'Fuck the poetry and fuck the horror story!'
The power reconnects, a relieved intake of breath; breath rhymes with death, that's why rhyme is a crime, although transitory. A screen re-enlivens and a bright light is back. This is all too sapping, the poet thinks. It's there again! On the window a finger, or maybe a talon, tapping!

The night thickens to tar as the storm abates
A pause in its course, but it merely awaits...

There's a tap, tap, tapping on the poet's window.
'Let me in, it's me, I can help... just let me in,' whispers an all too familiar voice.
'What the fuck!' The poet declares. 'I'm so tired and now I'm fucking wired!'
Thoughts are racing, as they run amok. The horror cliches live and the poet's mind is leaking like a sieve. The interred rhyme is the crime and the verse still a curse...
Fuck! Silence...
There's sanctuary in the silence, but the silence is leaden, oppressive and cloyingly aggressive. A minute passes, then two and three and then...
There's a tap, tap, tapping on the PC's screen, on the other side, on the inside of the screen... from within.
"Fuck," is the thought and it is a thought and not a dream, for the poet's awake, wide eyed and alert, of that there is no mistake.
'Let me in,' is a repeat of the improbable request. Then more urgently...
'Let me the fuck in!' It's the poet's voice, of course it's the poet's voice. It's not some fucking demon, thank fuck!
...when the pressure's on you'll be observing that there's far too much fucking swearing...
Someone's knocking on the door, knock, knock, KNOCKING.

The eye of the storm has passed and the wind is howling
As the petrified poet sits there, slack-jawed and cowering...

There's a knock, Knock, fucking KNOCKING on the poet's door.
'Let me the FUCK IN! You know who it is and we'll know where to begin.'
There's no lock on the door, because beyond is the hall. There's no key to turn, no bolt, not even a wedge, there's nothing at all.
'Oh fuck,' the poet reiterates, as a racing heart sinks.
There's a bang, Bang, BANGING on the fucking door!
This has to be a nightmare, or the poet's imagination running wild, detached from reality and completely out of sync. And so many fucking swear words and cliches; cliches, cliches everywhere, but not a drop of ink.
The keyboard's clicking; click, click, clickety click! On the screen letters and words appear within...
>Hey, cunt, open this fucking door and LET ME THE FUCK IN!<
Fists and talons are pounding, Hammering, BATTERING the door!
The poet might be you, but it's certainly not me...
So, just open the fucking door! Honestly, there aren't any vampires in this world and the insane don't really wander around in storms knocking on windows and doors.
There's a pungent smell and a pregnant pause...
Get a grip! There's a hand on a handle and the turn of a knob, the poet opens the door.
Why! What the fuck for? Another big mistake!

A nightmare, a night storm rages
Rattling poets in writer's block cages...

'FUCK!' Is screamed, and rightly so, for before the poet stands a fucking monster!
Cloaked like the reaper, its hooded head is a feather and tar skull with a raven black beak; soulless pits for eyes bulging, remorseless and blindingly bleak. Of course it's an impossible creature, but it's there and it's happening and the poet's high in the air, impaled on talons. Ribs are cracking and crushing as the blood is flowing and gushing. There's the smell of piss and the touching of cloth. Spinning around a light bulb there's a mocking moth.
'Hey cunt! I'm everything you're fucking NOT!' The words rage in the poet's head and more words are said. 'Is this fucking dark enough? I said is this FUCKING DARK ENOUGH!' And then in a barely audible whisper. 'Is... this... dark... enough, for you? You're a fucking clown, but there're no jokers in the pack; no jesters. So let's have a look inside and see what fucking festers... and then, perhaps, I can put you out of your wretched... fucking... misery.'
And it's all there, from the Hanged Man tarot to a hooded figure on the boards of the gallows. Horrific creatures are rising from an open deck... and there's a noose around a poet's neck. And the smell... the gagging, fetid, stench of putrefaction and the rancid sweet sweat, purging the venlafaxine.
New words are hissed and the world is spinning. 'Die, fucking die, you fucking faker! You can't see it, but inside I'm grinning... that should unblock the block!'
The poet is hurled across the room and crashes, outside (symbolically!) the lightning flashes.
And there's no more silence, just torture and gratuitous violence. A beak plunges into eye sockets, devouring the juicy morsels. Guts are ripped out and blood splatters walls, floor and ceiling and the screams are soul wrenchingly revealing. But there's no rush as the poet's head is slowly cracked until it snaps and implodes. Fuck! There's blood and guts everywhere and two empty eye sockets. A detached heart has stopped beating, as it's being eaten and there's vomit and gore all over the floor!
Feet with talons slip on the gagging gore, on their way out, back through the open door.
'Fucking charlatan!'

Epilogue: After the storm
It's early, on a sun-drenched morning...

The poet awakens, head on desk, groggy and half numb... feeling glum
Sunlit motes pour through the cracks in the curtains.
'Fuck,' uttered. 'What a fucking nightmare, I'm on the brink.'
But something has unblocked the block, for the cliches have gone and there's something etched in ink. It's the poet's handwriting, >Same scenario, same place, see you later, you fucking phoney. Kill yourself when you've had enough<
The poet breaks down and sobs with despair, reliving the horror of every nightmare.
Covered in livid scars and a throbbing head, the poet remembers everything and every word said. There's a sense and stench of faeces and piss; stains that could be blood and gore on the floor and a cool draught swirling through the yawning door.

'Fuck!'

The poet draws heavily on the smoking weed of a joint
Beneath the identified place of a ligature point
The world is now calm, not heavy, the world is dope
And attached and ready is the noose of the rope

Now there are no more lines to write, no more improbable monsters to ponder
It's The End; the insane may be lost in storms, but they have no need to wander