ONE OF ThE THiRTEEN (number 9)
I am Joshua Kane, I am one of the thirteen, I am number nine and don't try and trick me. I have many memories in my black weed heart. The dark hurts my eyes. I have to electrify. Now. There are powers. The cutlery box is locked. The cutlery is counted: each shiny, cold, steel piece. I am thinking. I am planning. Don't doubt it. I will be me again. To see each other. See between each other. Face to face.
They watch when I shit. The little square window is clean and shiny every day. They smile and watch. I squat and smile back. Their eyes are like bees: the bee’s knees. But I know them. The pyjama people watch. I know them. I have the gift. I swim into their minds and slush through their words. I stack it all up in my computer and index, codex, reflex.
I watch the clock. Every half hour I stare at the locked cupboard on the wall. Steel. THEY open it and give me a cigarette. If I stretch my brain and squint I can make the hands do what I want and make my spunk splatter against the wall. I'd have to say that is for certain. They don’t like me playing with my penis.
There's a fat Italian girl. She says:
I want to get out. I want my family. I want to die.
I thought she was here for humorous relief. So I laugh. Especially when I watch her burn her large breasts with a cigarette and she asks me to bite on her nipples with my lizard like teeth. She comes to me at night and screams rape in the morning. I know the doors are locked. There is a bed. And white plaster and grey lino and a single round light and a little square window in the locked door. They watch but I know what's on their minds.
I have my exercises. I do not ignore my peril. THEY Watch me pissing. I can still fill up my cupped hand with piss to drink and keep the circle. No pain, no gain, no rain, no shame. I just know. I am not stupid. I know. I have the synthesis. Synthesis.
Kane kanf kang kanh kani kanj kank kanl kanm kann kano kanp kanq kanr kans kant kanu kanv kanw kanx kany kanz.
I am a man of code.
They stopped me speaking. They took away my pencil. The fuckers. You see I have seen tiled confessionals streaked with rivers of dry cum. I have licked the walls clean of its putrid sperm and stale shit! The inheritance of pain is punishment. Don't talk to me about nursery rhymes. I have gone beyond the city walls and smelt funeral pyres, dung hills and corpses without pennies.
To reveal, conceal, heal. I've committed it to memory anyway. But I've posted it to the Queen, the Pope and the Lord Mayor and I talked about it with Mister Zero outside the lingerie shop.
Adorned with widow's weeds,repository of divinised memories.At a society danceup and down the bordersvacuous vassals jerk.Fiery sermons on our shoulders,pissshitwankfuck in our dens we lurk.With the dry creek beforeand solitary city behindand overthrown hedges ablaze.Urbi et orbi pyresconsume filthiness and spentpiss and sweat and cum. Staring eyes without cold penniesFor the train conductor's last ride home, no longer comprehendingmere nostalgic nursery rhymes:It's no wonder in the murkyworld, bodies are hacked asunderWhen there's a font of melancholia in the breasts of Alice white.
Humiliated, bitch whores banish springseeking a different heart.The hidden pantheon is scattered.Ascend triumphant, not to startwithout a struggle, inglorious.Farewell my mystery cunts,Farewell my teenage whores.
To love the destroyer, angel child.To love IT as Thou art.Pay the whore to say I love you now fuck me hard in my dirty slut asshole.There is an unholy chair that cannot leave this room,rotting in the commingled blood of wayward schoolgirlsCall unfortunate the man who is not dead.
In ungodly twilight of darkling fears embrace Tronman with erect intentand firm hands tolook him in the eyeand chant unblinking a lullaby,a threnodic epithalamion.Is it not so?'Das man hier alles durfen darf.'Is it not?The truth liesnaked, it lies thereon.Is it not so?The tron sword bleeds and flays.All is possible but all is not.Expediently a forgotten onecreeps home with bloody footprintsand the severed head of a ghastly child killallthelittlefuckersandfeedthemtotheobesewomenofengland!!!
Only breaking glass will tell.
See? See. I've seen gods die, grandmothers finger themselves, the scum rot in plagues and I've heard children cry as they plead for their pathetic lives. I tell the truth except for when I lie.
I am the voice of the fire and I am blazing. I will not die without fire. It is assigned. I must take the destroyer angel, a silent young girl. I shall cut out her tongue and eat it with raw. A flat. A railway. A factory. My prick erect. I must caress her throat. I have my orders. Death row dress circle. It is the greatest gift to lay down. I am. I do. I am the avenging angel: the prick, priest, prince, and prophet.
I will not be calm.
Too many voices, now. Same old questions. Too many sins of omission, commission, permission. And the truth lies.
Dead bed lights out. I see. I hear. Just a little bit of peace and quiet. But there's an unholy chair, which never leaves this room. Riot. Bloody. Words in the dark. Gaps in the silence. I want to kill and I want to inflict pain. And there's always the sound of shattering glass. I shall be free and join again the thirteen.
I am Joshua Kane. I am one of the thirteen and I am number 9.
Be seeing you.
ThE ENd
I am Joshua Kane, I am one of the thirteen, I am number nine and don't try and trick me. I have many memories in my black weed heart. The dark hurts my eyes. I have to electrify. Now. There are powers. The cutlery box is locked. The cutlery is counted: each shiny, cold, steel piece. I am thinking. I am planning. Don't doubt it. I will be me again. To see each other. See between each other. Face to face.
They watch when I shit. The little square window is clean and shiny every day. They smile and watch. I squat and smile back. Their eyes are like bees: the bee’s knees. But I know them. The pyjama people watch. I know them. I have the gift. I swim into their minds and slush through their words. I stack it all up in my computer and index, codex, reflex.
I watch the clock. Every half hour I stare at the locked cupboard on the wall. Steel. THEY open it and give me a cigarette. If I stretch my brain and squint I can make the hands do what I want and make my spunk splatter against the wall. I'd have to say that is for certain. They don’t like me playing with my penis.
There's a fat Italian girl. She says:
I want to get out. I want my family. I want to die.
I thought she was here for humorous relief. So I laugh. Especially when I watch her burn her large breasts with a cigarette and she asks me to bite on her nipples with my lizard like teeth. She comes to me at night and screams rape in the morning. I know the doors are locked. There is a bed. And white plaster and grey lino and a single round light and a little square window in the locked door. They watch but I know what's on their minds.
I have my exercises. I do not ignore my peril. THEY Watch me pissing. I can still fill up my cupped hand with piss to drink and keep the circle. No pain, no gain, no rain, no shame. I just know. I am not stupid. I know. I have the synthesis. Synthesis.
Kane kanf kang kanh kani kanj kank kanl kanm kann kano kanp kanq kanr kans kant kanu kanv kanw kanx kany kanz.
I am a man of code.
They stopped me speaking. They took away my pencil. The fuckers. You see I have seen tiled confessionals streaked with rivers of dry cum. I have licked the walls clean of its putrid sperm and stale shit! The inheritance of pain is punishment. Don't talk to me about nursery rhymes. I have gone beyond the city walls and smelt funeral pyres, dung hills and corpses without pennies.
To reveal, conceal, heal. I've committed it to memory anyway. But I've posted it to the Queen, the Pope and the Lord Mayor and I talked about it with Mister Zero outside the lingerie shop.
Adorned with widow's weeds,repository of divinised memories.At a society danceup and down the bordersvacuous vassals jerk.Fiery sermons on our shoulders,pissshitwankfuck in our dens we lurk.With the dry creek beforeand solitary city behindand overthrown hedges ablaze.Urbi et orbi pyresconsume filthiness and spentpiss and sweat and cum. Staring eyes without cold penniesFor the train conductor's last ride home, no longer comprehendingmere nostalgic nursery rhymes:It's no wonder in the murkyworld, bodies are hacked asunderWhen there's a font of melancholia in the breasts of Alice white.
Humiliated, bitch whores banish springseeking a different heart.The hidden pantheon is scattered.Ascend triumphant, not to startwithout a struggle, inglorious.Farewell my mystery cunts,Farewell my teenage whores.
To love the destroyer, angel child.To love IT as Thou art.Pay the whore to say I love you now fuck me hard in my dirty slut asshole.There is an unholy chair that cannot leave this room,rotting in the commingled blood of wayward schoolgirlsCall unfortunate the man who is not dead.
In ungodly twilight of darkling fears embrace Tronman with erect intentand firm hands tolook him in the eyeand chant unblinking a lullaby,a threnodic epithalamion.Is it not so?'Das man hier alles durfen darf.'Is it not?The truth liesnaked, it lies thereon.Is it not so?The tron sword bleeds and flays.All is possible but all is not.Expediently a forgotten onecreeps home with bloody footprintsand the severed head of a ghastly child killallthelittlefuckersandfeedthemtotheobesewomenofengland!!!
Only breaking glass will tell.
See? See. I've seen gods die, grandmothers finger themselves, the scum rot in plagues and I've heard children cry as they plead for their pathetic lives. I tell the truth except for when I lie.
I am the voice of the fire and I am blazing. I will not die without fire. It is assigned. I must take the destroyer angel, a silent young girl. I shall cut out her tongue and eat it with raw. A flat. A railway. A factory. My prick erect. I must caress her throat. I have my orders. Death row dress circle. It is the greatest gift to lay down. I am. I do. I am the avenging angel: the prick, priest, prince, and prophet.
I will not be calm.
Too many voices, now. Same old questions. Too many sins of omission, commission, permission. And the truth lies.
Dead bed lights out. I see. I hear. Just a little bit of peace and quiet. But there's an unholy chair, which never leaves this room. Riot. Bloody. Words in the dark. Gaps in the silence. I want to kill and I want to inflict pain. And there's always the sound of shattering glass. I shall be free and join again the thirteen.
I am Joshua Kane. I am one of the thirteen and I am number 9.
Be seeing you.
ThE ENd
No comments:
Post a Comment