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mordicai: crown me king! [entries|archive|friends|userinfo]
mordicai caeli

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March 12th, 2004

mordicai strikes back. [Mar. 12th, 2004|02:07 pm]
mordicai caeli
[Current Mood |finishing move.]
[Current Music |I AM NOT SURE. SUCKS TO YOUR ASSMAR PIGGIE.]

so there have been a couple of nights where i've dreamed of dead unicorns. ghosts, not of the faggy little purple & pink gilded kind, but of the tall noble kind; the kind with long horns that arn't fragile decorations (like cake icing) but weapons; the kind with powerful necks clearly meant to absorb the impact as horn is skewered into flesh. the kind no lion would beat down & take a crown from. fucking draft horses on steroids. i don't know what it is, but when they die, they ain't so horse like. they are these shadows, these cut out humanoid silhouttes. incorporeal as any good haunt, except the horn is still there. solid as anything & jutting out from the middle of their head-tenebrae.

i'll keep killing them though, never fear.

whatever it is about shadow, its spreading. i keep thinking about technology powered by shadows. there is a whole name for the genre, you know. gnomon, though pretty much the only example that springs to mind is the sundial. though all sorts of speculations spring to mind. all kinds of gloomy things that just get the fucking job done. if you don't know what i'm talking about, then fuck you, you probably never will.

so i guess jenny & i are on the guest list of a trendy nightclub & we'll hang out in the vip lounge with amete et al. & see grandmaster flash. i will be wearing black rhinestones & snorting coke of black strippers tits & there will be a black fucking evening for all, i guarantee you that*. i'm a trig motherfucker & make no mistake about it. i've got candycorn dagger eyes for the ladies & a frankenstein-monster brain for the men. desire me & despair. deny me & despair. etc.


*not an actual guarantee
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gingerbread KILLS (as in, harlequin murders, as in, rook to king's bishop) [Mar. 12th, 2004|02:58 pm]
mordicai caeli
[Current Mood |malkav wins the night.]
[Current Music |cmk- absolom, absolom!]

marco was a simple grinder of meat. that was his job in the sausage factory & he did it with aplomb. he drank on the job, sure, but he still had all ten (10) fingers & he'd been working in the meat packing industry for 13 years, so he wasn't an alchoholic by default, see?

marco is a metaphor. he is a metaphor for a serial killer. this serial killer is named marco as well, as it turns out. marco the serial killer has been killing (humans) for 13 years, but hasn't ever gotten caught. there was a close call with a young girl in nashville, & he got away scott-free more out of police incompetance than anything else, but he's been careful since then. marco kills like most people masturbate; not really for the thrill, but for the mechanistic release of built up stresses.

one day marco will be visited by a ufo.
he will be given an offer he can't refuse.
this offer will restore the sexual satisfaction to his job "at the sausage factory."

claire is a paranoid scizophrenic. every day she downs mysterious pills (& on really bad days, there are needles & straps & everything. claire has a crazy notion that there is something growing within her. claire also claims to be from the 13th century, & from toledo, spain, but she's crazy, so lets put that aside. claire's cunt is a mass of scar tissue, inside & out: she's taken coat hangers, safety razors, all kinds of shit to herself. because claire knows that if the child-thing she is carrying is ever born, that it. kattam-shud, wave by-bye to everything. the vistas of armageddon are gonna come swooping in.

claire was visited by a ufo.
claire wasn't offered anything.
claire was taken from, & then given to again.

if claire doesn't kill that black brat in her gut, you can kiss this world goodbye.

fuck you claire, fuck you. couldn't you be pro-life or fucking something?
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