Last thought in a Playground

playground thought

She’s beating the

crap out of me

I want to be

retaliatory

But I can’t find a gap

to even try

and hit back

She kicks me in

my side

Everyone there wants to see

me cry

I can hear their

jeering calls

of magnified echoes

charging through halls

This strange metamorphosis

in sound

is my ticket off

the gravelly ground

And I can see myself

lying there

The group of bystanders

shout and cheer

My body, I see

crumpled like

a sack

And I never even got a chance

to throw a punch back

© Kait King, 2015

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Andy’s Addiction

Andy's addiction

Andy has a problem

he doesn’t know what to do

there’s a monkey glued to his back

and it’s really chewing through

his heart,

his bank account,

his tired soul

Andy has a problem

he doesn’t know how to say

that he doesn’t want to be here

not for another single day

of hurt,

of frustration,

in an angered mind

Andy knows this problem

he knows what he should do

but it wraps him up and chokes him

and he can’t see his way through

another single day

with no way

to feel

Andy can’t reach out for help

that would just mean pain

How can he reach out for help

when his hand is trapped

by shame

and addiction

and fear

© Kait King, 2015

Blink of an Eye

Domestic violence

that Evil Beast

Thriving on hurt

when all you want

is Peace

Insecure person

always comparing in loss

Punching out your feeble Anger

But your Family pays the cost

Vulnerable? Were you

beaten yourself?

Shouldn’t you know better

than to put them through

this Hell?

Poor little person…

Is that what you want

them to think?

So here you stand at

a Crossroad

You can change all of this

in a Blink

Kait King 2017

I just want it to end

i just want it to end

So I’m sent back and forth

and around again

to specialists and surgeons

who say it’s in my brain

the wiring’s fucked

Is what they say

because a butcher unfortunately

hacked away

at your hope

your dreams

your aspirations

your purpose

you

Forgiveness and acceptance

words to deal with

spilling your guts makes you better

I think that’s just a myth

to stop me

hold me

trap me in belief

I just want it to end

© Kait King, 2015

A Mantra for those Suffering from Violence

a-nz-highest-rate of violence

You will never

have power over me

You’ve taken everything

that you can see

but you will never

have power over me

You will never

have my mind

You’ve beaten me black

held me behind

But I promise, you will never

have my mind

You will never

have my soul

You tell me I’m ugly

stupid and old

But I swear, you will never

have my soul

© Kait King, 2016

Kings Seat?… or Hell Hole… Part 1 and 2 now…oh and here’s 3 – ok I promise this is the last bit…no really…

KingSeat or HellHole

This is a true story!!

A long, long, loooong time ago….well it certainly feels like that, I sort of stumbled along into acting and modelling. That had to be said as I was doing some extra work on a vampire movie out in an area I live not far from now, Kings Seat. Typical film day, we had to be on set at 4-fricken-am, and in make up after signing in. So it’s cold and wet and windy. The location is an abandoned insane asylum. Big luminous floodlights are set up inside and outside of the main empty building. Spitting rain plays invisible/visible as it passes through the light – gusts of dark wind causing frenzied flurries – mesmerising, hypnotising, vampirising – so yeah, it was perfect for filming a horror/vampire movie.

A bunch of us headed up to the gloomy entrance of the building – I was desperate to take a look around and needed to find a partner in crime. Somebody else who liked having the begeezuz scared out of them. Everybody clattered into the front hallway and across to where the lamps could be seen and bizarrely enough, the smell of bacon was coming from. Trestle tables were scattered in some haphazard order, if that’s even possible and there was hustle and bustle going on where breakfast was being prepared. The area was huge, with warped wooden floors – dusty as hell, doors hung off hinges as did cobwebs off every corner and chandelier or light fitting. I wasn’t hungry at 5 am but I could do with coffee and anyway I needed to convince someone to come exploring with me. Someone who didn’t mind if they missed getting picked for some opportune moment in the movie because they were missing…

So I settled in next to someone who looked friendly enough and sipped on my coffee – it sucked, it was not real coffee and I don’t do imitation anything if I can help it – and coffee is a miracle and should be treated as such. Anyway, I’m listening quietly to the discussion I’ve intruded on. I recognise a few faces, the “usuals” and I guess I was one of them too… we swap a few early crinkled grins and raised eyebrows as acknowledgement of each other. Fuck knows what your name is but I usually don’t forget a face.

So it turns out, besides an abandoned insane asylum being creepy enough, it was haunted too. Haunted with psyche nurses who had killed themselves apparently in absolute despair. Now there were two kinds of people sitting around sipping crap coffee listening to the ghost stories. People who get more and more creeped out and just want to cling to the fluffy teddy-bear image they have of life, and then there’s people like me. People like me become more entranced and fascinated with a bad, never done before, you will never make it, you can’t do it, story… and I was sold. When you’re wired like this, you learn to pick out others who see the sick fascination in everything bizarre, unusual and usually incomprehensible. And there they were – two of them who seemed to know each other already. I had never seen them around any of the other jobs I’d been on. So I kept quiet and watched and listened and learned. They were funny and adventurous, curious and tough – I liked them and we all clicked as soon as we started chatting. I introduced myself and as we chatted away and started talking about the creepy old place, a very effeminate, obviously gay man dropped into the conversation and also fitted in perfectly with our twisted fascination of ghosts and things not of sound mind, or body for that matter.

So we slunk off to have a look around at this grey stone, intimidating building. We were in one of many – there was a place where only children were kept. The bunks lined the wall, not two up – but three. The bunks were so close together you would have to be a pretty skinny kid to squeeze your way down to the floor. The so called play ground was a fenced area with one dead, leafless tree or a twisted skeleton was sitting sadly in the middle of a patch of dirt which had become mud now, in the drizzle. The area seemed way too small for all the kids that might have filled all of those bunk beds at one time…even half of them would be a crowd. You could almost see them standing in the rain, clothes dripping, hair clinging to their unloved unwanted skulls. A great sadness hung around this area and it made us all pause and be grateful that we were on the other side, even though Kings Seat was empty – even though it didn’t quite feel like that.

Behind us was the building for the criminally insane. Razor blade wire sat on top of a chain link fence glinting dangerously at us in the flickering lights from afar. I wondered how many desperately crazy people had dreamed of being able to slice their arms on that wire and escape the hell they were in. This place was for those charming individuals who danced around with their mother’s skin draped over them in the moonlight – naturally Ed Gein springs to mind.

We held our mobile phones up to see where we were going and to read or look at things that caught our attention. We moved up to a general patients building. Were they just generally insane? Or did they generally behave under medication? Generally harmless? There was a broken window at the back above a walkway area – possibly made for wheelchair access. We all managed to clamber in after chunking bits of glass off the windows’ edge with a stone. It was incredibly dark and scary. The four of us clung together like shit to a blanket – I didn’t care if I was the blanket or the shit, I just wasn’t letting go come hell or high water.

So there we huddle, like a pack of startled rats. I wanted to make a circle out of us, y’know so we just could shuffle around but our backs were always protected. This started out as a good idea but became obvious very quickly that it was impossible to move through doorways, use stairs or get down hallways with any stealth or logic. We file behind each other and end up in a big open room with huge dormer windows. Bird poop, dust and time had smeared the windows to a level where it wouldn’t have mattered if the sun was shining, nothing was getting through those. The rain against the windows didn’t even manage to make a running pattern against the concreted bird shit and grime. Scattered over the floor were pictures, pictures that had been drawn by the patients who had once lived here. As we wandered through the open room and our eyes became a little more acquainted to the bad light we could see pictures still pinned to the walls. Tendrils of wallpaper hung around the pictures pinned indiscriminately with sometimes only one pin. The paper was yellowed and brittle, the pictures childlike – perhaps used as some sort of therapy. The room looked as if someone had just torn loads of pictures off the walls or out of cupboards and scattered them over the floor, leaving just the odd cluster of those who had time to be pinned. As I looked through some of the pictures I noticed some that were drawn in black, red and purple crayon – angry, hurt drawings. It was weird, standing there, looking into personal demons of strangers. Wondering why there are so many stories of the people who care for the crazy ending up crazy themselves or worse still, dead.

You could almost see a body hanging in a doorway, someone scratching on a wall, another rocking back and forth in some vortex unknown. We took our leave and headed back out through the window and out into the dank dark morning. As we crunched our way around the weed riddled gravel roads we came across a pen type building. There were hoses attached and metal bars that looked like they would pin a human against the wall. We all agreed that this felt like a place where people had been forced to be cleaned or washed. It felt desolate and wet, cold and unforgiving. As we moved through the property we found ourselves in a very oppressive place. We walked through a heavy metal door, we didn’t want to touch it and all of us managed to squeeze through it’s unwilling opening. I stood in the dusty darkness, I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I was in a narrow low corridor, about ten rooms ran opposite each other with steel doors on each. The rooms themselves were all made of cement – the floor flowed into a cement bed, up into a cement wall and a grater type covering sat over a small oblong window. You wouldn’t be able to put your face up to it or look out onto anything. The whole room was cement, nothing movable. I could feel so much pressure on my body it was weird. As we walked down looking into the rooms we found sad memento’s of those forgotten. A filthy comb on a cement bed, a piece of hopeful rope, a blood smattering, or smear in just about every room. These dungeons stank of pain, sadness and death – death of spirit…

It was so oppressive we all became desperate to get out, panicky – overwhelming stuffiness and cloying glue air. Clambering and squeezing through the impossibly heavy door we fell out of the corridor into an open room and looked at each other, exclaiming how awful that was. We had all been frightened by this creepy old building and the grounds. We had all felt the sadness and suffocating oppressiveness but for some reason it was overwhelming in that close, dark corridor of cement rooms. We made a hurried journey back to the main building, strangely quiet in the slowly iron grey morning. Once we got there amongst the lights and bustle we kind of relaxed a little. The thought of anyone being locked up in those cells made of cement, like a tomb, it was incomprehensible. So with a hot drink in our clutches we tried to warm up a little. Some of the people who had been chatting to my new found friends came over to our huddle and asked us where we had escaped to. After telling them in great detail about our scary travels around Kings Seat we were all called to set and had to stand around for a while in silence most of the time – very tiresome. Anyway at morning tea it seemed that a little tour guide gathering had decided we were going to take them to the creepy tomb-like cells where the insane must have thrown themselves against the walls, clawed at the grater windows till they bled, banged their heads against those concrete walls and some would have killed themselves in there too, no doubt.

We arrived at the huge concrete and steel door into the corridor to the cells. We couldn’t move the door either open more or closed so those who were able and willing, slipped through the gap and into the squashing atmosphere of the tomb. There were lots of ooOOoo’s and aaahhh’s – a shriek and giggling. Slowly people dripped back out of the tombs’ corridor and into where I was standing, unable to go back in after the way I had felt there. No one seemed to be too fussed, I think there were too many of us to feel or allow anything to feel.

We returned to the main building – the adventure had been creepy and mysterious to all of the others but they had not felt what we had felt. The four of us had made surreptitious eye contact, realising that no one else had experienced that suffocating horror, or silent desperateness to get out. None of us had spoken while we had been in that corridor, looking into the cells – it was almost out of some religious or spiritual reason or respect that we were unable to do anything initially and then just want to escape a split second later, with absolute needy desperation…it was strange.

We continued filming after the morning break and lunchtime rolled around. One of the research guys from the crew invited me to sit and have lunch with him. We had met before and he always knew what was going on and when. So I told him what we had been up to and that I thought the place where the psychiatric nurse would have committed suicide would be in that tomb room that the four of us had felt strange in. He looked at me with a slightly confused look on his face.

“Which psyche nurse was this?” he asks

“Well, I think there was more than one who committed suicide because of the patients…” I said, trailing off. He was shaking his head. “Uh uh…that’s not what happened there. You have the wrong story.”

So I ask him to tell me the real deal. Apparently that cement cell block held the most dangerous patients – and was generally full at any one time. The ratio for patient and nurse was one on one due to the nature of the beast. Somehow one of the patients overwhelmed his nurse, a male psyche nurse and suffocated him. He then stealthily crept to the next cell and helped the next patient kill his nurse and so on and so forth until all ten severely violent and disturbed psyche patients were free. As the gathering group moved down the cell block the killing became more and more frenzied as they realised there was nothing that the nurses could do when there was seven of them and only 3 nurses left. Some patients threw bodies against walls and smashed the victims heads open, dangled brains over themselves and ran around screaming.

No one would go in there. The staff believed they would calm down when it came around to meal time and the nightmare could be dealt with then. Well the patients managed to hole up in there for 5 days, eating the bodies of the dead nurses. Then they turned on themselves. That is why there is no Kings Seat Asylum for the Mentally Insane any more – they ate the staff and the clients – real bad for business….

The End

© Kait King, 2015

You know you know…..

you know you know

You already know –

You know you’ve

known for ages

But just didn’t

want to look into that ugly face

or go to that ugly place

You knew months ago

when he was angry with you

when all you did

was be excited he was home

and he turned his back

and left you there alone

You already knew

when you could

smell the hint of perfumes

that you know you

don’t wear

Those whispered

phone calls

He doesn’t want you

to hear

You already know –

you know you’ve known

for ages

but just didn’t

want to look

into that ugly lying face

or go to that ugly empty place

© Kait King, 2015

The Slavering Beast

13ghosts bipolar schizo

He could see

and feel

a slavering beast

He could smell it’s

breath

see it’s sharpened

yellow teeth

It wanted him

to do

bad things

It felt like the

Devil with Hate

Not his usual state

of being

but any Angel

with wings

was going to be too late

It said that nobody

nobody

gave

two shits

And do everyone a

favour

Go ahead

slit your wrists

Kait King 2016

Oh I Didn’t See You There…

Oh I didn't

It’s going to get dark again, even if the sun is shining I know what I’m in for. Staring into nowhere with a sense of hopelessness and despair that seems to have no end at the time. So you’re back, you’ve returned with your sticky, clingy sadness I must wear as a shawl. It’s a shawl made of all my wrong-doings, lost dreams, failed relationships, and a frightening anxiety about the future. It weighs a tonne and I struggle to sit up in bed with it on, or get out of bed, or brush my teeth or my hair…you weigh me down, Depression.

I didn’t know I was feeling so bad until I was in the kitchen making myself a coffee…I had been thinking negatively, granted. And the cold of winter doesn’t make it easy either so the future looks grim with the situation I’m in. This is the exact time the Shawl of Depression draped herself securely around me so I had to drag myself sadly and tearfully back to my bed. I see the sky, the sun, the birds, the beauty – the beauty in everything but me and my life. Then I tell myself off for being so ungrateful and get angry at the things that stop me being who I want to be. My anger covers the fear and anxiety. I would rather be angry than scared. It’s a long process to get to angry. It’s a long, unseen, unknown process that puts me there in the first place though.

I lie facing the wall. I don’t want to look at beautiful things. My eyes are open, I’m not moving though – my breathing hasn’t changed, it’s still, rhythmical and the tears just seem to fall out of my eyes endlessly. No noise, no change, nothing – just a waterfall coming out of my face that seems like it won’t let up. I don’t understand the grief or the sadness. Perhaps it is the broken me saying goodbye to the real me but refusing to let me go… In a little bit I will sit up and write about this. It’s crippling and yet I know I have to ride this out. I know I should take a good look at those feelings but I’m just too angry at the moment…

Kait King 2017

I can wait some more

So now, sick of being shoved from pillar to post and being basically bullied into corners, we have decided to go legal….My sister has been an incredible force. There is no way in heaven or earth I would have been able to do all the paper work and appointments on my own – or at all actually. She took all of that worry and confusion away from me.

We were fighting for me to have the correct amount of a serious medication called Pregabalin, AKA Lyrica – and I need the most you can take and a little Morphine thrown in here and there, just to keep those pain centres quiet. And I’m like “Hell yeah! Shut those fuckers down!” Hoping for a miracle and getting as close to that as I could with a lot of the “noise” pain being dampened. I still have severe pain in my back/hip/sciatica and the odd chest pain that incapacitates me too, but certainly not the constant stabs all over the left hand side of my body that was exhausting. And my right eye socket was so incredibly painful I couldn’t open my eye and I wanted to literally rip it out, or smash my head in. I used to pinch the skin next to the internal pain in my chest where the nerve damage is and also dig my thumb deep in to my eye socket to at least change the pain. I know I can’t be free of it at this stage, but at least not have the same gnawing hits. Anyway, I digress…so we go to see this lawyer and he’s fantastic. He’s onto it, he knows what needs to happen, what we need to get or locate etc. This is great as we needed this guidance and the clout that the lawyer gave us. The hardest part – well, there were two to be perfectly honest. The first hard part was actually going to talk to this lawyer – with such a complicated case there is so much information that needs to be assessed. And this is the firm to be doing this, but I was so fragile BeFoRe I left the bloody house! I felt overwhelmed, I cried and had to put my mascara back on – it didn’t help. I think I was in disbelief that after all these years and after all of our struggle on our own, someone was going to listen and possibly help.

Anyway, the second part is this; while you are the client/patient/victim/however you wish to see yourself, people get so involved in the complications of my case that they talk as if I am no longer present.My sister and the lawyer started chatting, I’m on so much medication and in so much pain I lay on his couch with a glass of water as my meds give me major cotton-mouth. So the hardest part of all of this (and it sounds sooooo not hard), but was listening to my sister and the lawyer “discuss” my case which made me feel like I wasn’t even there – and to be perfectly honest, I’m not when I’m on such medication.
But it also didn’t change the fact that I had to listen to how permanent my situation is, that there is nothing anyone can do and it’s just a matter of medicating her, sorting out what help I need and the physio required to “rehabilitate” me – world’s largest joke if that is supposed to be happening right now…because all I have felt is re-victimised, unworthy of help, forgotten and just a number. It’s not ok, the 2 medical misadventures I’ve had, it’s not ok to be abandoned by your so-called insurance company, it’s not ok when someone botches something, that they never have to own up – ever. The guy who ripped my nerves in my chest in 1989 is now the “golden boy” of thoracic surgery….how the hell did that happen? And I often wonder to myself if he would remember me – more than likely not. I daydream about getting an apology – a genuine “so sorry I fucked up” apology. I have waited since 1989 – I can wait some more….