You’re bundled
into a car
you don’t know
where you are
You can hear the
indicator blinking
And it triggers your
panicky thinking
You try to count wildly
at something
Knowing ultimately
that this isn’t helping
trying to remember
the twists and bends
Wondering how on Earth
will this all end
© Kait King, 2015
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
And in dreamland
I traipse
with leaden feet
Frightened
of my reality
Awake
when I’m asleep
© Kait King, 2015
A lisp
a whispered hiss
With a gristle hustle
and a deathly shuffle
you wind your way
back home
There’s a twist
and a freakish glow
in a freak show
the decaying beat
of a drum
hiss
a whispered kiss
of a driveling fool
your hunting days
are done
this
flayed lantern skins
bones used as tools
a soup bowl
not a soup bowl but
a human skull
© Kait King, 2015
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…
Inky black, I’m sucked back
down to her darkest depths
Like an octopus her story wraps me in its tentacles
A stranglehold on stories told
and the ink she has spread across the page I can’t see through
I think I’m drowning…it’s sticky black and I should come up for air
even though my mouth is open to suck grace in -nothing fills my lungs
even though my eyes are open there is nothing – nothing but darkness
inky blackness the colour of the story told with the pain of being buried alive
© Kait King, 2015
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