Memories fall

Within the sound

Of their own collapse


“There was a young lady of Wight,
Who traveled much faster than light,
She departed one day
In a relative way,
And arrived on the previous night.”

– Stephen Hawking

There is more s…

“There is more stupidity than hydrogen in the universe – and it has a longer shelf life.”

– Frank Zappa


The ache like old leather
Not immediately
The face in your mirror
Turns aside
Not knowing why


Rummaging through pages feigning flight

My fingers swim patterns on your neck

Wondering openly at your shoulders

Lying together in early evening

Now close enough to speak

Each smile returned while arms tighten

Delicate and responsive to each passing breath

Breeding luminous lights under eyelids

We are happy within the air


Of all the answers possible

I can hear the rain falling on the road.

Completely removed from the world mere mortals live in

Delving into cinematic noises

But never so that any of us can hear.

The front position of all offenses

Making yourself a cup of coffee in the dark

And so far distant in your mind.

The Fifth of November

Remember, remember, the fifth of November
The Gunpowder Treason and plot;
I see of no reason why Gunpowder Treason
Should ever be forgot.


I am in bed amongst the stones

Grey textures suffocate my skin

The pillars beg to crush me

Shapes sail on dark oceans

No flags wave me home

Moonlight shines into an open mouth

Soul is clear of body

I felt so symbolic once before

A single note rings on and on and on

Patrick’s Day off Work

The Patty Winters show this morning was about victims of nuclear warfare. She was interviewing a number of the sorry cases in her usual cheery way, but I could see the strain behind her eyes this morning, the silent disgust emanating towards the creatures sitting opposite her. I ate my usual morning muesli mix with one boiled pair sliced into even pieces while watching one of these mutants with a forehead the size of a watermelon being interviewed as they sat in a plastic chair. My days no longer have a discernible end or beginning. They flow together like a lucid dream from which I cannot escape. My nightly bloodlusts have overflowed into the days and I am not sure what to do about it besides seek comfort in my routines which are markers in the fray. I seek comfort in planning and fantasising about the night’s activities.

I found myself weeping this evening for no reason while I tried to sauté a girl’s brain, the tears hitting the sizzling skillet and adding to the juices. On the outside, I’m a blank canvas, capable of humanising myself only when I am shaped and moulded by others to do so. On the inside, I’m a boiling geyser, frozen chunks of nothing falling off at regular intervals, something that is occurring within me more and more often lately. Soon all physical evidence of me will cease to exist. I know now that anything that was once stabilising me, binding me, was long ago eradicated and something new must be built to hold me together.

On the cards tonight is another pointless torture session of two hard-bodies I will pick up from Le Cirque, more corpses to be drilled nailed, raped, dissected, filleted, etc., etc. Even the prospect of testing out the new tools I bought today: a length of barbed wire, a six by four pine board I shot hundreds of nails into, sticking through the other side in varying patterns, and Anderson aluminium baseball bat that cost me $250 – these all fail to arouse an inkling of excitement in me, but at least for a while it will hold what is left of me together.

I already know the tasks I plan to carry out tonight will accomplish nothing, they will not help me at all, which is why I know I will go through with them. I should be more concerned about the hole of self-harm and sabotage I am digging for myself. I am taking less and less care to hide who I am. There are buckets and dry-cleaning bags of gore all around my house, in the closets, in my freezer. Any day now New York’s finest could come bursting through my door. The evidence of my self-harm of this is not external. I maintain my life and routine to the strict regimens I have been following for innumerable years. It is happening inside me. Once so sold and calculated, my veneer is shifting – minutely – but shifting nonetheless. The tears this afternoon are proof of this. Could it be the pointless? But how could it have only just started having an effect now if, until this point, I have felt nothing but exuberance at my nights bathed in crimson. Maybe it is the sheer numbers, the countless people I have committed to an early demise simply to satisfy my lust. I long ago lost count of them. Their numbers could start weighing on one’s conscious, or subconscious, even in someone like me.

Midnight. Yasmine, one of the hard-bodies I picked up from Le Cirque, is bound to the board full of nails, barbed wire wrapped tight around her face, her wrists wrapped in it as well. Kara is already losing consciousness, half of her face crushed by the baseball bat, turned to a dripping raw mess of meat and muscle. Chunks of flesh are split apart, especially around her jaw, and I can see the whole row of perfect back teeth. Her feet are nailed to the floor by each toe, half of them ripped apart from when she struggled and tried to break free. I made sure she knew that there was no chance she would ever escape me, even if she somehow managed to crawl out of here with her bleeding, mutilated toes. I would have found her, I tell her, even if she hadn’t been at Le Cirque tonight. I would have found her wherever she was, because this was where her life was meant to take her. It is fate that brought her here, to be ripped and gutted like a fish on my living room floor.

I push Yasmine’s body deeper onto the bed of nails as whining sounds escape her through short, sharp inhales and exhales as the nails rupture nerve endings. I know she feels every nerve burst, and I thank whatever God presides over us that she is awake for me to see her torment through her eyes. The ends of some of the nails have pierced the whole way through her torso. I pull the barbed wire around her face tighter, forcing skin through the holes between the wires. When I pull it as tight as I can, her face slices into seeping, fat bloody chunks. One of her eyeballs bursts halfway out of the socket, thick pus dripping down and mixing with the palette of blood. Her body still twitches uselessly. I watch as she goes into her death throes, trashing herself like some comical earthworm against the bed of nails, her tongue whipping about like a gory string. Her body finally stills after I take a fork, puncturing it through her throat, ripping apart the veins, digging into it like I did into the blue cheese-crusted filet mignon with Port wine sauce I had at Harry’s for lunch.

After sawing off what remains of the head, I hold the bloody pulp in my hands, edging towards Kara, who is quivering uncontrollably even though her own face is half gone. I thrust the chunks of Yasmine’s once gorgeous face into hers.

“See, this is what happens when you go home with strange men. You really shouldn’t screw around you know. It’s very unbecoming of a young lady.”

I spit in her face, forcing globs of meat from Yasmine into her mouth, half her teeth broken and chipped from the hits she took from my new, once gleaming, aluminium bat. I pick up the bat again, thinking of the date I have with Courtney tomorrow at Dorsia, where I was finally able to make an eight o’clock reservation. I’m deciding what I will order: the grilled butter fish with sugar snaps, bell peppers and soy glaze, or the Kurobuta pork belly, roasted with southern spices, red rice and pecans, which Timothy Price has been raving about since he went there last week. With each heavy hit from the bat, crushing Kara’s face, crushing her legs, her chest, everything caving in on itself, I marvel at how calm I feel, how content. This is my panacea. This is what sustains me. The tears earlier were a glitch, a smudge on my perfect sheen. The numbers held the truth after all. But it wasn’t the weight of them that was pulling me down; it was their volume that was keeping me afloat. More is the key, sustained and steadily increasing levels until I can blissfully free and away from this life on the lethal injection table, where the bloodlusts will no longer matter. I think of Paul Allen’s head in a bucket in my hallway closet, his lips cut off so every time I open the door he smiles widely at me. I think about the breasts in an airtight bag in my freezer. I think about the cheeks I hollowed out and stir-fried with brown rice on Sunday night.

All of this running through my head as the blood spatters my white Armani shirt, my naked legs covered in fluid, pulp and blood spraying over my feet as it gushes out in geysers, I close my eyes and see torrents of it flowing around me in a sea of rough, storm strewn whitecaps. My body bows and bends with the ebb and flow of the tide, but it holds strong. I am floating in this eternity of peace, in this sea of red. After what could have been twenty minutes or two hours, I open my eyes. When they have completely adjusted to the early morning gloom, it is still there; splashed on the walls, on my body, on every surface. I finally release my grip on the baseball bat after realising my hands have cramped into claws around it. When I look down all I see is a red soup that has been mashed and pureed until it ran smooth and deep into my carpet. I sit cross-legged, surveying the scene. I sigh when I remember I promised Jean, who recently told me she loves me, to go to Arcadia with her on Thursday. This brings up a deep wave of annoyance and pity in me, though I can’t figure out why.

Fairy Floss

For Neil 

Fairy floss

You evolve when you eat fairy floss.
Machine spun.
It doesn’t matter which.
The sweet fibreglass
Chuckles rinkling tinkling giggles
He he he!

Green and white
Artificially delicious throw pillows of sugar.
Dissolve into tiny crystals
On the pinnacle of your tongue.
They fall like tickled icicles
Puncturing the walls 
Of your abdomen.
Once while eating fairy floss,
I absorbed my watch into my arm.

It reappeared
On my other arm,
Slightly modified.
All the displays 
Except the second hand
Had been removed.
In my fairy floss induced state
Of enhanced power
And blinding high-speed clarity; 

My body had subconsciously optimised
The design of my timekeeping device,
Removing unnecessary and
Distracting components,
While reducing energy consumption
And simplifying packaging.
It had also changed the minute
From 60 seconds
To 58 seconds.

I can't begin to explain
How much shaving those two seconds off
Of every minute
Has helped me in all aspects of my life.
If anything, THAT is why I am where I am today.
Thank you, fairy floss.