Sunday, December 20, 2009

“It’s a Wonderful Life”


I’m as clever as the rest of you lemmings riding around in your gas guzzling monster truck baby killing machines-sucking down triple latt├ęs while fucking your husband in his Barry Mellono ass with entire EXTRA GOLD-CORPORATE credit card that has 60% interest!

Yes, I am the angel sitting there next to you- HELLO my name is CLARENCE.

I am the hand that pushes you-
Not into traffic
NOT into your lovers arms
Not into the water
Not even into another person, that’s just plane rude

Because in the spirit of Jummi Stewert I have to think that he was in leagues with the devil. There is no way unless you have shaken the hand of GOD the almighty imaginary FRIEND- that you will be saved unless you make a deal with LEWIS CYPHER himself.

OR me, I’m the only other imaginary friend who can help you. Much like CLASUE that jollyjelly of a man who I would STAY clear from –


Because Dr. Lee told a child her once that CLASUE rapes little boys if they don’t take their medication.


Dr. Lee has a good sense of humor- I love to hate that guy. ☺

So on this merry of holidaze conditions that I would like to call them. Pleas e feel free to put a small something under the tree for CLARENCE

Because you never know when you might find yourself at the edge of sanity and want to end it all right there on a bridge.


Sunday, December 6, 2009

Ki∆ky=unconventional sexual practices

I dreamt last night of a fog that rose just above the Devil’s Strait=A small section of jagged rocks off the coast of Martha’s Vineyard.

There I saw a woman, a being known as HERMAPHRODITUS

She came to me again in my dream. I miss her- she hasn’t made an appearance to me in months. 120days+52hrs=I missed her- my little friend, my sanity, my sexual partner.

Explain to m e her, her who I know only as HAPPY-she has a face that a mother would smack and a father would fuck.

She smells of vinegar and blueberries with a hint of cinnamon- her cock, thick with every ounce in it- ready to cause sin wherever it goes.

SHE IS MY FAVORUTE Frankenstein. I love mother night as she delivers me this germ- this disease of many, claiming to be one with me,


Dr. Lee says that the treatment I received in Tulsa was adequate but not up to HIS standards. I laugh at you doc, giving me such high hopes.

I/m awake it’s 00:03- Dr. Lee gave me time again tonight to write. He says because I was stinted in my Summer CAMP hospital I went too. That he wants me to write more now.
Lucky me


I have been sitting her for over an hour, thinking of something to write.

Pigsmkssk;;sckmccccc skkksssssss sucmydiksjjsjcj sjlwashmeccc;csm m

There you go- I wrote something

Saturday, December 5, 2009


Stumpy was sitting three rows up from me under an apple tree which covered a set of benches with shade. We were at a puppet show in the courtyard of Doctor Cunty’s playroom. It was your typical “Punch and Judy” display of ragged and worn marionettes.

The really BIG ‘Tards as I liked to cal them were the ones putting on the show. I never laughed so hard. Some of these patients have the IQ of a donkey and the manners of an overweight trucker needing to take a shit.
Of course if I showed anytype of emotion I would be sent into her big SMELLY-putrid-genitlewart ridden VAGINA!

Yes Doctor, your vagina smells like a dead leopards asshole.

I digress….
Stumpy was sitting two rows in front of me, I was watching a retarded puppet show with Dr. Pick-my-ass-hole present. My interest laid in Stumpy actually, how a person, a man could sit with such horrible posture and not be sore- the rings of neck fat he had, you can almost figure out his age. Then there was the BACKhair! horrible, long, velvety black and it curled in unison, leaping out of the top of his shirt.

I wanted to shave him.

Shhhhhhhh- I did, yes no shit Dr. Lee I shaved Stumpy. I shaved a FUCKEN ring around his collar so I wouldn’t have to see it anymore. Then I shaved his fat rings, I shaved his fat wrinkly head, I shaved his eyebrows- and then his balls.


I was bored and HE disgusted me.

Now when I go to the dreaded puppet shows. I can sit and enjoy those little retards as they run around with their hands up puppet asses and laugh outside.

RIGHT-In Ms.- Docter Cunty’s face.

And Stumpy is as smooth as a babies bottome.

note to self- Dr. Lee please keep reading these because I need to make sure yu understand that I shouldn’t be let free. You DUMB APE.

Saturday, November 21, 2009

Home Sweet Home

Dr. Lee had me transferred to another facility. Back in February. I was sent to a minimum security asylum outside of Tuscan. Where I was under the care of a Dr. Jane Pickman a cunt of a woman who hated men with the passion. She hated me, though I think Spunky, a midget more who lived next to me on block 3- he ate his own feces and although his cubical never did smell his breath was shit.

I had to have lunch with him and a short broad individual by the name of Stumpy Joe. I feel like I’m in a New Jersey prison. Dr. Pickman would always call me in to her office and want me to commit to daily tasks around the facility. Cleaning cubicals that had just become vacant from the previous tenant, washing public latrines watering her plants, mundane shit really. She had a beard or mussetache that gave me the willeys. Stumpy Joe gave her his comb one day. Not as a joke but thinking she was actually a man.

He spent several days in the hold.

I’m now back with Dr. Lee and his band of merry misfit janitors that he calls “help.” Though my head is clearer since my trip I feel odd being back. Especially since the last two months of my ten month journey is very vague. I remember only bits and pieces.

I received transfer pages to come back here because Dr. Cunt couldn’t handle me. HA!

She told doctor Lee that I was a “high risk” HA! Again. I’m as about as high a risk as Spunky. At least Dr. Lee as much of a cocksucker that he is, gives me the time of a different day and the means to get out my frustration here and through my arttowrk.

I’ve learned many assets here using this internet and watching our fellow “man.”

There was a tranny the first day I came back home here. He was in my van sharing fare with me and George who was my “keeper” as I traveled across this great fucked up nation of ours to get back here. I degress.

This tranny with tits of Dolly Parton and the cock from John Holmes is sitting across from me- we’re both shackled to the floor. He is in his travel duds as am I. He is a newbie coming to my house. From the stories I’ve heard, he tried gagging a guy with his cock but wasn’t able to get it all in before the fucker bit down and took half of it off. I shit you not. So now “Lacey” as they call IT has a mouse size cock and giant saggy bitch tits.

That motherfucker kept staring at me the whole way back, which is about a 45min drive from the airport. I can’t stand when people stare at me. I finally got tired of it and when I got out of the van I jumped his crooked cock ass and beat him as best I could while being shackled from head to toe.

George gave me a crack in the back of the head and I rolled over like a dog playing dead.

Earl but not Matt came out to drag me back insoide. Matt was on leave, nervous breakdown from what I heard. Too bad- I liked tormenting that sorry sack.

So my first night back at the Necropolis, my home of homes. I spent it in the hold. Lacey was bruised and in the next box over from mine. I know this because I can smell IT’S Old Spice and perfume hookers would wear. It was if it was his permanent stink.

I tell you I don’t miss Dr. Pickman- haahaha as I sit here thinking of my time with that fat smelly whale of a decrepit waste of space. The stories, they put a smile on my face. I’ll write more tomorrow. At the moment I’m on good behavior because I drew a picture for Dr. Lee today. Actually it was for his sweet, sweet daughter Jenna.

But don’t tell him that…

Saturday, February 7, 2009


She is my savior, I love this beast of sin.

It as some say has given me the ability to free my own thoughts. I sense I am as much it as it is of me.

Dr. Lee, has prescribed more colorful medication since my last entry, I suspect he wasn’t too thrilled on what I was trying to say. But Hermaphroditus came to me as it does every night and visits. Frightened, I cannot look away from this beauty of of a?______that has a cock of a man but luscious breasts of a woman. I am not certain what this means.

I’m rambling today, thoughts not really in order today, perhaps it’s the lack of sleep in this place I call home. I haven’t a clue what is driving me every day to get up and face this grey world of sin. Feelings I have from day to day resemble ones of vilonece deeply buried in my body. I can feel sin as if being electrified by it. The sensation can be felt to the tips of my fingernails which quiver as I type.

When Hermaphroditus appears to me it’s when I am sexually aroused. Perhaps it’s a combination of people I have fucked in my life. But I’m trying to think of who they are because some of them have been cold and stiff. Memory is fuzzy. I am toeing a fine line which I can’t decifer, is it in my head? Or am I really like this?

Qwestions I ask myself every second. Sometimes I cannot focus because the thirst for this electricy is strong. Perhaps I should chew my fingernails down to their nubs again. Painfulyes but sometimes it has to be done in order to quell this feeling.

I hope it comes for a visit tonight- I’m very scared when it arrives, but also aroused, what does this mean in the order of life? I rambling doctor, don’t look, fading fast heremust sleep.

Thursday, February 5, 2009

This was never my world

I dig deeper and deeper into my subconscious as if scraping the fading white paint from my concrete cell walls. I hear what Dr. Lee tells me and what the voices say but I cannot stop to think what I may or may have not done.

A memory in my head has a journey that continues in a downward spiral where I can see the bottom of a hell or heaven I may predict in my future. It is a place of warmth, love and comfort as I see fit in my eye’s.

Laugh ye not what ive done by my hand the hand of God, but by ye hand of fate which I had been given by the good Lord himself. Only he can save your wretched soul from my black touch. This was never my world to occupy, never my world to inhabit with maggots, sperm and vermin such as yourselves crawling on the stained filled ground of life’s little silly joke.

Laugh ye who has a heart hollow to my taste of your soul, a heart that I will smell which beats a lie to you, to your loved ones which I will have to steal and keep close to my ear. Listening to it’s whispers of deceit.

Angels will have the last laugh on our souls of mercy keeping me to their breast-


To cover up their sins of their father who does not exist except in the chalice of blood you sip.
I masturbate to their songs, to their hymns, to their righteousness.

I taste the salty semen of God’s seed which passes through my lips and down my throat. Patrick is one with his body as I am one with Jezebel.

I am coma, I am BLACK, I am the son of the STARS, MOON and your SOUL as it EXISTS in the palm of my hand as I squeeze the life from your body. The taste of your blood on mylips is heaven and where I want to be, become a part of me. I will devour you as much through my mouth as I can through feeling the insides of your vagina.

Monday, February 2, 2009

The House of the Hunter

Dr. Lee, I know this is supposed to be diary, my blog, my own special blog, mine- but you use it against me. You say my thoughts are bad. So why do you have me do this? Should I lie? I find it ironic that I take the things from in my head and out them in front of you and you pick at them like Frances poor stupid Frances would pick his scabs. They were so awful to look at. Not that there is much in here one like you would call pretty. Its all bad, all ugly.

Except in one place, my head.

But sometimes I lose control of that and it turns ugly too and I do ugly things. I like to watch. And at night the beautiful dreams of the one way mirrors. Where I can watch, and watch. I watch a family eating I shall call them the Johnson family as that is a nice good old fashioned apple pie American name. They are black and white and in the 1950s. Mikey their son is 8, he hides a psychopathic hatred behind a cherubic face and all the right things to say. I watch him the most. Mr. Johnson hits Mrs. Johnson when they have sex, and even if he doesn’t she just moans in a painful way like someone undergoing a gynecological exam. She has to put up with it, let it happen, but she can’t hide the pain. The daughter is only four and of little interest. Pretty much useless. Mikey will abuse her when the parents aren’t watching. He slides her diaper down.

I move to the next house and this house is broken down, a ghetto house, six black and Hispanic men sitting there counting money and cocaine. They swear a lot and boast about guns.

I move to the next house. The house of the Hunter. He is the important one.
In jail, only your dreams matter, and in mine, The Hunter is everything.

I want to scratch like Frances, scratch my eyes or my face, but no doctor I’m no cutter.

I like the forest, when there is a full moon and it is raining, or a cemetery, the sound of the rain hitting the pavement or the gravestones, the sound of it dripping from the trees.

That’s what they took from me when they put me in here. The sound of the rain hitting the trees. You took that from me, and I won’t die before I hear it again. Or I could hear the sound of blood hitting the trees, the thick black book that runs out of the top of your head, the notorious tar colored “brain blood” you see black blood and its time to start mourning. I could hear that dripping from the leaves and that would be like a thousand orgasms.

Saturday, January 31, 2009

Today is a beautifully cold day

I was remarking to one of my pets this morning that it's such a beautifully cold day. The sun crest through my small window at twenty minutes before the hour of seven this morning. The snow on the trees glistened. There are several rows of small stone markers that extend from the back of the building and sprawl up a small hill out back here. I call them soul markers where of course we bury our dead from this place- yes it's true. Sometimes they have no place to go when they die here, no family, no friends, no one wants them except the ground and worms that travel through the most soil. This time of year as you know the ground is frozen so it's very difficult to bury someone. Stephen my neighbor was rambling again all last nght about the "men" who are coming for him. Not certain what he's talking about, especially since I sometimes don't know what the hell I'm thinking about. But then when I awoke this morning and saw this beautiful day I saw what he was talking about. The "men" came last night but not for him, but for Roger who is in cubicle 27. The poor bastard died last night and as I was waiting for my daily allowence of essential vitamins and that good doc? I heard a thump, thump and it was Earl, the caretakeer trying to see how frozen the ground was..well after one or two hits, he managed to slip and fall on the ice that covers the ground out there..I had to laugh inside because he looked like a fool. He looked like he really hurt himself and when he got back up he slipped again. I could hear Jonah just a few cubicals down from me hysterically laughing, though I'm not sure if it was at Earl or at the random thoughts of terrors the poor bastard has. I think Roger heard him because he looked back towards us, squiniting to see if he was being watched. That's when I heard Jonah banging on the window and yelping as if at ball game. Well this set Earl off and so once he was able to stand, even wobbling in place he flipped off Jonah and basically crept his way to the back entrance of the building. Frankly I think it was stupid of Earl to even attemp this idiot test considering from three floors up I could tell that poor Roger wouldn't be buried today. In fact he joins Frances who died at the beginning of December and who sits in the moselium on the grounds. At least Roger and Frances have something in common now. In this world they were crazier than shit house rats. Frances would pick these scabs on his body that he thought kept moving around. The problem was that someone, I can't say who, ok it was orderly Wilson dropped his pen which rolled under Frances' bed. Well poor Frances was so obbessed with these mysterious soars, that when he found Wilson's pen he just started digging into the side of his neck until they stopped moving. Wilson was suspended or something, pehaps elevated in keeping the head count low here. So that how Frances was taken. Roger just died I suppose, but who knows, my information is scarce since the inmates are nuts and the staff here is even crazier for taking care of us..Yes Doc, I have to wrap it up for now, thanks for listening...

Tuesday, January 27, 2009

The day the world went away...

Once upon a time I used to write in my bok of lies I called it. Until I got caught and then it was a pack of truths that others wanted to use agaiinst me in the court system. Of course this is a story of another time and I have lots of that at the momet.

I have been finally able to be free from my small cubical we calll them here, not cells as you would see fit to call them in the "real" world I guess. What does that mean? The real world, is that the place outside of this existance of where I'm at in this particular moment? Or is it the place where you exist far away from me and my friends or patrons or what have you. I think the real world exists no matter where you are, whether you're stuck in your head like some of us here or have a nine to fve job. That's the world we live in- yes I know that you say. But the day the world ended for me, my reality which exists now among these cold walls and the membranes of my mind are very different.

My book of lies or truths set me free in ways that I can't even imagine. My doctor says I'm delusional and an obsessive voyuer...ha haa I like that..uses basic text book terms that are for the mundane and ignorant. "Patrick we find tha you can not be released to society at the moment." hat does that mean? Is it because of what I wrote in my book? Is is these things I have done, I witnessed that "sane" people would not and could not even dream of having done.

I can read lips to some degree, it's a talent that I have grown to enjoy using since most of my days are spent in isolation. Although I'm not a big talker of sorts I watch others ramble along their merry way into rediculous conversations about nothing. Blow hearts I call them among other things and when I stare out my eight and a half inch by twelve inch wire meshed thickened glass window on my door, I need to see conversations being said. They sometimes don't ven notice me there though I see their glances my way, I feel they're just playing with my by using terms like, "psychotic or psycopathic or even premeditated." Terms in which I don't know if they think this is what I am or they're talking about Stephen next door. He's a mess that poor bastard. Last night at two thirty and forty five secnds after the hour I was lying in my bunk, the silence was extraordinary. Of course broken by this asshole of a neighbor, he wouldn't stop screaming, I don't know why, but this carried on for many minutes. If I was to guess I would have to say at least twelve as a rough ball park.

Finally Earl and Matt came, they are the two orderlies or nurses or thugs what have you to subdue poor Stephen. I think he was having a nightmare, I know I dream, I don't belive in nightmares.

My time is almost up so I have to go for now. Dr. Lee is kind enough to let me start a blog. I think he thinks it will help me get better if Ic an write to you out there.