I am not one of these leather wearing ******* you see on **** sites. I am real. I listen to 911 calls on repeat. Images of gore, abortions, death, and torture fill me with unbridled lust.

Humans are amazing... Their build, their skin, with billions of embedded pain receptors. Optic nerves, sending horrific images directly into their frontal lobes. I love their faces, tiny changes in their expressions with different types and increments of pain.

There is such a glorious range and variety of pain that can be inflicted upon a human. Few appreciate the sublime canvas of a humans body. Each sense can be tweaked and tormented. All of there emotions can be played like an instrument, by someone with the right skills and tools. Their screams are sublime.

There is a certain kind of scream a person lets out, the moment they realize their own mortality, but it is beyond words. It makes me see red. I lust for it. I adore it.

I am free. I am not bounded by your conceptions of morality. ******, ****, and torture are simply choices. I can do whatever I want, whenever I want to whomever I want. Whether it is one death, a million, a billion, or an entire planet or the entire universe, it means less than nothing to me. I have no ideology, religion, or higher purpose. If the slab of meat and chemicals you call your mind is searching for a word to append to me, just think of me as an artist. My medium is flesh.

I walk among you. I understand you better than you understand yourself. I have studied the human body, peeled back the layers of flesh, the emotions. I see right through you. I am the nice, unassuming person you know. We share secrets. Some of you like me. Some of you love me.*

None of you know me.



I am, *sadist.

i cant write for **** today,
again, lol
i think my brain wont work.. or something,
tomorrow, ima force it to work! >:)

CJ attack you from the metronome
Catch you in your groove home alone
Blowin wit the chrome
Im blowin to the bone
My title be known.. cannibal.. dynamical maestro
Sparked and fully hydroed my team of psychos
Sell it higher than the Eifel Towers
Seconds minutes led the hour.. wein the power
Spittin bibles..the sunshower.. the wise out on the scene
They think we forget the dream
My aura sheens like morphine in your veins
Pastors saying can you and your crew.. oooh stand the rain
Many men possess the gin in the jungle of sin
Deeper than.. Sum chosen others frozen
From the explosion, my opposition
Protect my team of demolitions, full competition
Keep em drinkin Benjin
Like some chicken heads on the ground
Bite the trey pound for foes that wanna get down
Me and my clique sharpen the sound
Infiltrate the town

Straight faced In your embrace Gripped around my heart Innocent I plead my case
I'm never going back Please don't unwind This tether twined Around your heart
This tether breaks Decay Erase Finish what you start I know that it's not too late To save
us from ourselves Remember when your smile Made everything worthwhile
Finish what you start

i forgot how to write..
everytime i try, it comes out ugly,
i hate it.  the poet poems,
are the lamest **** ever,
but i tried,
maybe tomorrow
ill try again :)

we were speeding on 'e'
in dastardly overused lexemes
i used to forget, ending
peachy words with
'jolie' (or 'moche').



write: meta-cognition.


he writes lines and
chisels octaves onto my
skin, dough, bones and lacquers,
he says they are the only places
where mad love-notes would fit
without the keys.


the bed has turned bipolar,
diagnosed with isochronous stability.
we sleep in half-cut apples
held up by sombre scissors.


he imbibes couplets
from strophe tea-cups,
he leaves me hungover
in stanza trains.


he says that i am
the last pen he has and
if i were to stop dreaming,
the poet would be dead.*




write: writhe, wither.

there is a tourniquet on his tongue.

he is a risqué bloke
with alkaloid fingers,
they are wearing
yellow asylum jackets
yet he calls me
mad-


emoiselle, his, in between the lines
he cuts with razorblades and mirrors.
i find myself in between legs
of a stanza (not standing),
pale femurs and inner thighs
french-kissing into
surpine ampersands
where the first word
is a proclaimed ugly disease    -- perhaps 'love.'
and the other, its escapade   -- perhaps 'tuberculosis.'
but i must be the period:
oxidised bones.  


within the eyes
of a stanza (still not standing)
abides no fancy lines
no avarice for contemplative meanings
there is but space and void
and i've filled his femur marrows
with metaphors
to the verge of the patella.
he writes poetry for me
with a needle
and an eight-ball.



there is a tourniquet on his tongue
and his spine fits my stocking


seamlessly.