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Angel hair and open spilling guts hideous with intestinal snakes slithering over the floor.

I have become an illusion of arrival.

To write from stillness is to seeth still deeper than the storm.

World war 3 was my personal injury. I screamed a red skinless face. proffered my head for a beheading to the news media. Condemned into the compression of extreme guilt.

To be born in outline only. I held a bawling pastry cutter.

Assay the killed stag of childhood. I am worth my weight in gold.

Baby porcelain doll cracks its face to speak of kisses.

Hollow eye sockets of eyelashes right through to the back of the skull.

Blood tinged orange spiders embrace in the deathly throes of sex.

Scandal is gossip made tiresome by morality.* 

*paraphrase of Oscar wilde

Typewriter rhythms like rust red centipedal accusations of sharp severity.

Stabbing kisses and biting smiles.

Flesh putrid aecidiums picked by naked blonde girls.

Run from me I am ever present and deadly.

In death games I cannot die. I am spiked by nails and impaled with drugs.

The aetiology of my mood is bottomless and inexhaustible in its inquiry.

I came from out the stench of a decaying human and I now doubt she ever existed.

I swallowed all the spoiled flesh they force fed me. Got to grow up big and wrong.

Cruelty should inspire love for it to be beautiful.

Sadness that becomes music and swells with a perculiar euphoria to continue living this nightmare.

Labarythian Bach of ever increasing complexities.

Countessa of the mutilations. Sharpened bone red stumps. She has an infected wired jaw. Nails that pin cushion her features.

Dolorous and deforming into manifestation. Whipped through to the muscles and bone. "Oh god" I gasp and smear my wet red lips. Black as unborn bipeds.

I wore my wet blood and muscles for the spirit world's fetishtic desires. I still remember how my sex-kitten spirit flayed the skin off of my head and the pain shrieked through me like a hurricane until my heart almost gave out. Terror is the hostility of a wrathful cat with flick knife claws!
My lover changes her age and appearance and height. Sometimes she is 4,6,20
her eyes are white, yellow, black, red. Skinless or some strange transparent skin like glass and her hair fascinates me, blonde, black and curly, red, short and bobbed. I try to envision what a skinless girl would look like with shoulder length black curly hair and white eyes. Gorgeous and vulnerable I nurture her traumatising passions like an indulgent father. She sinks into high heels like liquid crystal opiate bliss. My pupils began running down my face like inky mascara.

Hooks and weights that the pierce skin. For days and days I hang suspended. Bruised and broken by Francis Bacon's left hand and right hand man. Spilled Seeds collected in pots of bleach. Vacuous inhalations of grateful suffocation just enough to visit the black and grey static of death. 

A cat convulsing into a black blur and erupting with red crustaceans that scuttle under the furniture.


◄ Fragments 2

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