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.
I screamed a red skinless face. Proffered my head to the world for a beheading. Shaped by 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 give kisses.
Blood tinged orange spiders embrace in the deathly throes of sex.
Scandal is gossip made tiresome by morality.*
*paraphrase of Oscar wilde
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.
Cruelty should inspire love for it to be beautiful.
Sadness translated as music that swells with a perculiar euphoria.
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.
A cat convulsing into a black blur and erupting with red crustaceans that scuttle underneath the furniture.