horrific

I place the brain in its’ skull….

/ Kait King / 25 Comments

Place brain in skull

When I finally find my rhythm and I am the one eager to push forward. When I can’t help but mould and mash a character of no charm, or carefully fine tune a delicate life, an angry spirit, that tortured soul….nothing can stop me. Time is of zero meaning or consequence. Food and water are not necessities, they are interruptions – as is anything else that must drag me from my Frankensteinian stupor. My frenzied, impassioned creation can sometimes make me feel overwhelmingly powerful or incredibly tiny as I realise how childlike my perception might be…or is it drama queen stuff? Not naivete…surely….not another avenue to explore…surely. Let me write it out of me in some shape or form so I can recognise it in some shape or form, not just a passing thought….a forgotten idea, feeling…story. Place the electrodes and blast it into the light, out to the night, encompassed in fright…write, write, write

© Kait King, 2015

She is nothing like me

/ Kait King / 45 Comments

Nothing like me

Gingerly I type the words, wondering if I may be the only person who thinks like this. god’s daughter is turning out to be more appalling than horrific, more repulsive than disgusting. I can feel her like black tar in my mind. She calls me to write her out – to layer her like a black wedding cake, all the details – the spiders, the webs, the cockroaches, the mould and dusty aura of her mind. The corners of her life are all in shadow, a shadow I have to be brave enough to step into and feel the darkness that is god’s daughter. She wants to be created but she doesn’t want me – I am nothing to her, just like everyone else.

And she is nothing like me…

What’s wrong with you

/ Kait King / 68 Comments

mary bell

Mary Bell

what the hell

at ten

was inside your head?

To choke a

little boy of 3

until he’s stone

cold dead

And then to carve

your name in him

the initials MB

in his chest

Did you want everyone

to know

that this work

was your best?

I know your mother

was a prostitute

and she did terrible

things to you

And is she the one

responsible

for making you

into you?

Others have

an even sadder tale

and are left with

deep scars too

but others haven’t

needed to kill

or do the things

you do.

© Kait King, 2015