I woke up as somebody else today, I looked like me, my blood even tasted the same. Blood? where was that coming from, oh yes, stupid me, the carving knife, never leave it on while you sleep beside it. Comic as my mutilation seemed, I yearned for something more, whoever I was today. Inspiration came like repeated camera flahes, drilling its way into my head and nesting in my frontal lobes, today I was to write something, something dark, something evil, something about me, something about my fantasies.
I poured my heart out and filled the inkwell with the usual cliched black goetia, I made a quill by placing my little finger neatly between the knashing blades of an electric pencil sharpener, I could feel allready that I was due to pen down something marvelous today.
I made light hearted quips about my masters nature, whilst ramming my fingers down my throat and slicing ribbens out of my arms. All this time I can remember detesting this person, but I just cant quite work out who.
Slaves and their Serpents contains re-writes of my earliest work, it was my first effort at producing the most fucked up thing I had ever seen. Needless to say, a lot of it seems pretty immature now, but there is a collection here of what I regard as some of my favourite items (The Falling Syndrome, Intestinal Splash, Neverevernever, Dark's Nest, Sordid, The Dream Hole, Candy Cages and Self Exhumation) if you can get past the self pity, the self loathing, the fatal nature of these works, then you will find yet more hidden deeper within.
