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.