Damn books. I wish the story went further.

Little fish, little pond.
Little fish, large ocean.

Large fish, little pond.
Large fish, large ocean.

Sometimes you’ll feel like your getting gnawed and gnashed at from the inside. The pounding will become louder and louder. You’ll want to scream, bite down hard, break all your teeth. Fingers and toes will get tense and contract. Scratching, tearing at anything in sight. If you’re lucky it’ll be a cement floor and you’ll only end up with your finger tips mashed off to the bones. Maybe you’ll just tense up so hard that your whole system ceases to function and you’ll die peacefully. Or even worse, perhaps a family pet or loved one will be there to calm you, but the intensity of what is torturing you is so great that they end up becoming a kitten scratching post. Your mind tells you to stop, but you can’t for it is no longer your body. You are a vessel to be driven upon another’s command until you just explode.

Yearning for clairvoyance, there is only so much which can be done.

Many a time I’ll discover myself involuntarily pondering upon the most disgusting and unfathomably wrong thing that I could do in one situation. In the end my morales and conscious mind will kick in and tell me, “NO.” I’ll find myself quietly whispering aloud, “no, no, NO, NO…”

Of course I can only say so much, through writing or words, because my thoughts can be so horrible that even I attempt to avoid reminiscing upon such nightmares.

Sometimes I wonder, what if one was to go into my mind and eliminate the restraints that tell me what is right and what is wrong.

How far would I go?

What deeds would one accomplish?

In the end it is obvious that a mad dog could only last so long before it is shot down. Even those who go to the darkest depths know when to stop and take a breather. When to hide before lashing upon the world once again.

Hands soft as silk brush against my own rough and tattered skin. Receive my coins.

Such gestures are not of generosity, for it is not a virtue of my own.

I dream of highways of blood, nicotine, alcohol, and heroine settling upon the floor.

A mere byproduct of my sculptures of flesh, bone, glass, metal, and wood.

Tattered rags, reeking of sweat, urine, and shit. Red eyes, rotten teeth, an unshaven face. Beautiful.

Will I simply throw an axe into your head and use it to hook your body along the pavement as I drag it into my car?

No, much like art, life is not that simple. An artist must struggle and self inflict pain through their own strenuous labor of love.

Be my canvas, my freshly dug glob of clay.

Rotten teeth. Rotten teeth.

Greasy little jagged thorns of calcium, yellow and black, caked with bits of last weeks dinner and plaque.

Cold rusted pliers of steel bind upon your teeth, twisting, jerking, and pulling.

“Infected wounds are dangerous things,” I whisper in his ear.

Handfuls of table salt fills his mouth before it is stitched shut with carpeting needles and fishing line.

Fingernails and toenails. Nasty, ingrown, little things. They carry the scent of garbage and shit.

Garbage and shit smelling like garbage and shit? Impossible.

One by one, I peel them off with a bottle opener. and scrub the dirt away with bleach and iron wool.

My gaze, my smile, gleaming with cheer.

I love the feeling of anticipation before something wonderful happens.

This is just the beginning.

“All it takes is one bad day to reduce the sanest man alive to lunacy.
That’s how far the world is from where I am. Just one bad day.
-Alan Moore’s ‘The Killing Joke’

When I die, I would like to be have every single piece of me sliced into little cubes and served to my friends and family. My flesh and bones would be prepared with such skill that no one would notice that it is me and even the smallest stomach would hunger for seconds and thirds. After every single piece of me has been devoured, it would be revealed, that he who has been eaten is no other than me!

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