The Master Poisoner, an enthralling audio dark story presented by The Online Stage, stands out for its rich, engaging dialogue tinged with creepy, sinister elements, making it one of our top picks.
Adding a layer of intrigue to this macabre production, its co-author Maxwell Bodenheim met a fate strangely mirroring the story’s theme – he was tragically a murder victim.
Maxwell Bodenheim’s life was marked by personal turmoil. His third marriage to Ruth Fagin, who was 28 years his junior, was characterized by a destitute lifestyle, including homelessness and subsistence through panhandling and Ruth’s engagement in prostitution.
This period was marred by incidents of violence. Their lives met a tragic end in 1954 in Manhattan, where they were murdered by Weinberg, a dishwasher they had befriended. The violent altercation occurred in Weinberg’s room when the 62-year-old Bodenheim awoke from a drunken sleep to discover Weinberg and Ruth engaged in intimate activities. Bodenheim challenged Weinberg, and they began fighting. Weinberg shot Bodenheim twice in the chest and proceeded to beat Ruth before stabbing her four times in the back.
Here is an audio extract of The Master Poisoner written by Bodenheim, aka The Kin of Greenwich Village Bohemians, one of the most original dramatists of the early 20th century:-
The Master Poisoner comes courtesy of The Online Stage – producers of numerous AudioBook and Theatre Productions, with a huge range that is free to enjoy!
And as a final epitaph for Bodenheim, his very dark tendencies are on display below in the form of a sample of his dark poetry for your enjoyment.
Death by Maxwell Bodenheim
I shall walk down the road.
I shall turn and feel upon my feet
The kisses of Death, like scented rain.
For Death is a black slave with little silver birds
Perched in a sleeping wreath upon his head.
He will tell me, his voice like jewels
Dropped into a satin bag,
How he has tiptoed after me down the road,
His heart made a dark whirlpool with longing for me.
Then he will graze me with his hands
And I shall be one of the sleeping silver birds
Between the cold waves of his hair as he tiptoes on.
I shall walk down the road.
I shall turn and feel upon my feet
The kisses of Death, like scented rain.
For Death is a black slave with little silver birds
Perched in a sleeping wreath upon his head.
He will tell me, his voice like jewels
Dropped into a satin bag,
How he has tip-toed after me down the road,
His heart made a dark whirlpool with longing for me.
Then he will graze me with his hands
And I shall be one of the sleeping silver birds
Between the cold waves of his hair, as he tip-toes on.
