Horror

Not a good time…

/ Kait King / 21 Comments

Not a good time

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

Kidnapped

/ Kait King / 30 Comments

kidnapped

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

I place the brain in its’ skull….

/ Kait King / 23 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

Eddie G

/ Kait King / 24 Comments

Eddie G

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

She is nothing like me

/ Kait King / 41 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…