William Morgan

” I had my gun,see? As soon as I held that .38 special in my hands, I felt powerful. I felt like a man. I was gonna be all like Micheal Corleone in that restaurant. So, yeah, I went over to Bernies. He owed me money. A lot of money, but, I only wanted a little, not it all, just enough to get by. So, yeah, I went over there.’cept Bernie was dead. And, they just didn’t kill him, they fuckin’ destroyed him. There was hardly anything left of him. He was torn apart. They left his face intact, I guess so’s he could be recognized. But, the rest of him? Well, you saw him. Who could do that to another human being? I stared at him a long time, tryin to comprehend what I was looking at. It was horrendous, but, it was difficult to look away. Morbid curiosity, I expect.
And, yeah, ya got me. After the shock, I decided to look around some, see if I could find some money. I didn’t have a dime to my name, man. I needed to eat, y’know? So, I look all over the house. In the livin’ room, bedroom, bathroom, in his couch, in his cupboards, closets, fridge freezer, under carpets, under the mattress, pots, pans, every fuckin’ where. Then I step on this floorboard in the spare bedroom. It’s loose, and I’m like, oh, yes! So, I lift up the floorboard, and I find a strong box. I take it out, and, lets be honest, I was scared shitless. What if the killers come back? What if they were looking for the box I had in my hands? Every noise made me jump. I was like shittin’ bricks. So, I’m thinkin’, ok, get the fuck out. Take the box, go home, break it open.
And that’s what I did. Got a hammer and bashed the fuck out of that lock until it finally broke. I was sweatin’. Not used to workin’. I was pissed when I opened the box, cos there wasn’t any money in it, only videotapes. They were labelled alphabetically. Annabelle, Beth, Cassandra, Cathy, Christ he had about 40 tapes in there. So, I’m thinkin’, well, he’s been makin’ some home movies, maybe I can sell em, get a little bit. So, I pop the one labelled Cassandra in the VCR and play it. I wanted to see how good a quality the movie was.
Do you know what it’s like not to sleep? To be scared of closing your eyes because you know for a fact you’re gonna have a soul burning, horrifying, nightmare? That you’re gonna see Bernie, all ripped and torn, with his guts trailing on his bedroom floor, with his limbs moving unnaturally cos they’re hanging by tendons, his neck in a strange angle, grinning lasciviously as it climbs upon a 14 year old girl?
I never knew, never even suspected Bernie was a kiddie fucker. He just didn’t look the type. Bernie looked normal, y’know? I’m still tryin to process it, and I’ll never be able to understand. All those tapes, all those poor children. Jesus, and I can’t sleep, I can’t sleep. And, I’m tired, so fuckin tired, so scared of what lies behind my eyes when I close them.
But, I think I know what happened to Bernie. Revenge, that’s what that was. Fuckin ball to the wall, no holds barred vengengance. That’s why the face was left intact. Because his name had to get in the paper. A definite identity.
He was slaughtered, Detective Monahan, assassinated.”

Live! Live!

Why haven’t I run?
Why do i want to live?
Self preservation, survival, it’s strong, powerful, it takes over your mind. It takes over everything.
The things he’s made me do-and all because of that gun at my head. All because I don’t want to die.
And, I should die. I should. I run through all the things that makes me want to live longer. My girlfriend, Tina, who I was going to ask for her hand in marriage not three weeks ago, my Mother, Father, Brother, friends, co-workers.
All bullshit.
Tina will dump me in a heartbeat when she finds out that I’ve become a monster, my parents will probably disown me, my brother will just stop speaking to me, and my friends and co-workers will look at me with horror, and fear. I’ve crossed that line. I’ve become the boogieman, the thing under the bed, in the closet, stalking the neighborhood for a victim in my quest to quench my lust for blood.
I’ll be a pariah.
And, when I do die, as we all do, will God take that gun at my head into consideration?
“Yes, Patrick, I know your life was on the line. I know you didn’t enjoy the things he made you do, so you’re going to purgatory for a while to think upon what you did, and ask forgiveness, contemplate your actions.” Or will He say ” You are my child, and I am very disappointed in you. I would have taken care of you, but you had no faith. You should have taken the bullet. To Hell with you.”
I should run, take the bullet, end it all. Be a man, a human being, but, I can’t, so help me God, I can’t, I can’t. I want to live another day, another hour, another second.
And the child kneeling in front of me, crying for his Mommy, will not change that fact.

It’s A Sin, Y’know

It’s a beautiful night in Lorain,
The moon full in a cloudless sky,
It waits for me with patience,
Like a spider waits for a fly
I run from Death, screaming,
Heart racing from fear,
Legs tremble with exhaustion,
I know the penalty’s severe,
Death’s hand grabs my shoulder,
It’s scythe slices off my head,
My soul sinks lower, lower
Where I go fills me with dread
I’m down here with Hitler and Dahmer,
Where all the monsters dwell,
I’m smokin’, and burnin’ and screamin’
Cos I downloaded Bat Out Of Hell

I Am Heavy With Child



Tasty, though.





Have You Ever Ate Horse?

The kidne is delicious, and something to be desird. The liver was too much in a

state to eat. The heart is tough, and has to be slowly cookd in a pot, with som

erbs. But, it is quite delicat. I will, of corse send you the resipe, and som innards.

Yours truly,
Jack the Ripper


I spelt whores rong. Must be the lite

My Little Penis-A Poem

My little penis wants to grow, grow, grow!
Something psychological says no, no, no!
My little penis lays there sad and forlorn,
Hasn’t been excited since the day it was born
Women flop it around, cackle, act all coy,
“This isn’t a cock, s’not even a toy!”
My little penis hides in it’s hair,
My little penis is fraught with despair,
My hand cajoles, and strokes with persistence,
As my little penis ponders existence,
I pick up a woman, think of all things dirty,
As soon as we’re home, thing go murky,
She’s compassionate at first, an angel from heaven,
But, as the night goes on, she’s dripping with venom
“This thing’s useless, a dead piece of meat,
Your little penis sure has me beat!”
My little penis tries to take it with grace
I’m different, so, I punch in her face,
My little penis stirs, and begins to grow!
Gets harder, and harder with each bloody blow,
I break her jaw,and I roar like a lion,
My little penis is now hard as iron,
My little penis enters the hole,
Vomits in seconds, too much to behold,
The woman gurgles as I stick her with pins,
I smile as the erection begins,
My little penis is big, strong, and bold,
It’s now a wondrous thing to hold,
It enters again, a determined weapon,
Lasting a lot longer than a few friggin seconds
The woman thrashes, struggles, and cries,
My little penis vomits as she dies,
Such a marvelous feeling, this coming inside,
My little penis oozes with pride
I stroke it, pet it, wash it with reverence,
Greatly pleased I found it’s preference
On the hunt I go for those rejected,
No more will my little penis feel dejected
No more mocking, ridicule, or scorn,
My little penis has finally been born

Best Laid Plans Of Mice And Bob

Somewhere in America, in a shack, deep in the woods, someone is trying to come up with a new drug. The one that’ll give you a rush never felt before. The one that’ll bring in the big bucks. Experimenting, mixing, creating. Most fail (simply because they never gave a shit in chemistry class).
Bob Newsome is one. His guinea pig, Malcolm Singer, lay on the floor, legs twisted grotesquely, face black, blood running from his eyes, ears, mouth, bloated tongue protruding from a rictus grin. Malcolm was a homeless addict, and would do anything for a hit of the hard stuff. Malcolm didn’t give a shit about life, never mind chemistry. He lived for the rush that he got from his first injection of heroin. That quest for a repeat of the greatest feeling in the universe destroyed his marriage, alienated him from his two daughters, got him ostracized from the community, fired from his job, and, arrested and jailed for burglary.
He did things for heroin that shamed and astonished him. There are videos on YouTube of Malcolm beating the shit out of one of his buddies in the back alley of a bar. He got $20 for it. Then there was the animal stuff. Sick, twisted, vomit inducing. Got him more than $20, though.
“He’s dead. Look for another one, ok?” Said Bob on his cellphone.
Malcolm didn’t need that rush anymore. As he sat up, and looked at Bob, all he felt was hunger.


William Morgan

It was seeing the clump of hair floating in the toilet that broke me.

My skin became clammy, and cold, my stomach lurched, threatening to expel the toast and cornflakes that I had for breakfast.
The bathroom seemed to shrink, and become claustrophobic, the heat seeming to rise, as if someone had poured cold water over hot stones. Sweat poured out of my body. I was drenched in a minute. I felt sick, waves upon waves of nausea had me bent over, gagging, polluting the flavor of the corn flakes, poisoning the toast.
I heaved, vomited, splattering the floor with clumps, and lumps, mixed with a white froth. The smell in the small, white hot bathroom assailed my nostrils, and brought me to my knees. I retched, coughed, cried.


My head snapped up-frightened, sweat turning cold, I looked around the bathroom, saw nothing-


I yelled, grabbed the sink to pull myself up-heart hammering, threatening to burst, skin feeling tight, ready to tear, a roaring inside my head, so loud, so strong, it obliterated any other sound. The room was spinning, spinning, making me dizzy, bringing the nausea back. All my senses seemed to become more than human. I could see infinitesimally small cracks in the grout of the tiles along the shower wall, the blue color of the tiles no longer sky blue, but a color that my mind couldn’t translate. I could hear a spider methodically spinning it’s web, the sound of the silk expelling from it’s tiny body like the crash of a wave heard through a Marshall amp. The air passing over my skin was so cold, and yet, so comforting, the taste in my mouth was rancid, foul, my tongue burned, and the smells, the smells-so many different-


The bathroom was spinning, spinning faster, and faster, colors, and textures a blur, and I felt myself in a space that wasn’t real, a place that didn’t exist any longer.
The bathroom disappeared, and I found myself floating in the infinite universe, feeling so small, so insignificant, so lost. I closed my eyes, not wanting to see all that blackness, and nothingness.
When I opened them, I was in a bathroom. Not my bathroom which was full of light, and bright colors, but the bathroom of my youth, dark, grimy, the color of mud, and dismay.
My sister, Holly, was sitting on the toilet seat, sobbing, as my father savagely cut at her hair with blunt scissors.
TRAMP!!” he screamed as he cut, shearing her beautiful long, blond hair. Grabbing locks, twisting the hair violently, he cuts, and hacks, not caring if he cuts into her scalp, immune to her screams, the blood.


Grabbing handfuls, cutting with a manic speed, throwing the tufts onto the dirty, unwashed, curling linoleum, or into the toilet.
Holly screaming, Father hissing, spitting flecks of foamy spittle onto her almost barren head.


Mother had been dead two years. She must be on her knees, begging God to return her to the world to protect her child. God, being the most Fatherly of all fathers, ignores her, watches his creations destroy.
I was two years older than Holly, and all I did was watch with horror.
Holly, seven at the time, who had found her dead Mother’s make up bag in a box in the basement, and decided to play grown up. Holly, my little sister, who, when she colored, could never stay inside the lines, whose lips were now bright pink with lipstick, thick, and heavy, absurdly clownish, whose cheeks were so rouged she looked like Judy from Punch and Judy, and whose eyelids were painted a deep blue, all the way up to her eyebrows. Mascara was literally dripping off her eyelashes.
She looked like a clown who had been sent to hell, and vomited back up.


I ran to him, beating feebly with my small fists.
Holly looked at me with despair, blood mingling with her tears, hitching, and hiccuping.
Father let go of Holly, his eyes bulging, his face a horror of anger, and rage, full of fury, and madness.
He smiled, then punched me in the stomach. I heard a whooshing, not realizing it was me. My breath seemed to abandon me to my devices. I found myself on my knees, gulping for some air, any air. My head was swimming, and my face felt so hot, so hot.


The sound of his mad voice scared the air into me. I took a deep breath, in through my nose, out through my mouth. Relishing every molecule of oxygen.
Holly screamed loudly, and I saw that his feverish punishment had taken a chunk out of the top of her head.
He stopped, momentarily stunned by her scream, and I saw red. A nine year old should not feel the type of rage I felt, should not shake with the fury of a god, should not seethe with outrage.
I slammed my little body into his knees, and he cried out with shock, and ire, backed away, and fell into the tub. The scissors had flown out of his bloody hand. Came down on his throat.
He panicked, tore out the scissors, and blood gushed. A geyser of crimson. His hands covered the wound. His eyes found mine. I saw fear.
Holly had jumped off the toilet, wrapped her arms around me, hid her head, shaking.
I watched him die.
I smiled.
The bathroom shook, began to tear apart, the ceiling cracked, walls fell. A thunderous crack almost broke my ear drums as the whole house broke asunder. I held Holly tight as we began to rise toward the sky, a sky full of dark, brooding clouds, full of violence. Lightening hit the tub where the corpse of Father lay. The combination of ozone, and roasted flesh gagged me, the taste of copper, and barbecued pork made me shiver with disgust. We rose faster, and faster, and I looked down and saw a blackened lump smoking in a melted, misshapen tub. It was unrecognizable. Except it’s eyes. It’s eyes were open. They were bright. They accused.
I squeezed Holly, but she was gone. I was alone again in the universe. Alone. Lost and alone.



Hopeless and-





Heart in my throat-

Bowels loosening-

Bladder failing-



plummeting back towards the world.

Closing my eyes, I await the impact.


“Honey! What’s wrong?”

I open my eyes and see my wife, Sheila, who has been my anchor for ten years. I’m sitting with my back against the toilet. My pajamas are soaked with sweat. A puddle of yellow between my legs.
Sheila stands there, mouth agape, her slim frame visible through her sheer nightgown.
I gulp.
“You’ve-you’ve cut your hair.”
“Yeah, yeah, I wanted a change. But, honey, that doesn’t matter. What’s wrong? What happened?”
I slam my hands against my head.
“You cut your hair!”
“Darling! I-“
“You cut your hair! You cut your hair! You cut your hair!”
I sob. Shake with pure emotion.
Whore she was named. Whore she became.
Dead at 21.
Sheila knells beside me, strokes my head, whispers her love.
I reach back. Flush the toilet.

The Wail

The Wail
William Morgan

He needed to get away, just for a few minutes. The stress was weighing on him, pulling him down, like quicksand, and there was no branch in sight to help pull him back out. He could talk to someone, he supposed, air it out, a problem shared is…, let’s face it, blackmail fodder. Who could he trust?
His brother? No, he’d go apeshit, friggin’ nuclear. His wife? Maybe, but, it’s just a maybe. When in doubt, keep it to yourself. Christ, he didn’t think keeping a secret would be so mentally exhausting. Part of his job was keeping secrets. Hiding your cards, keeping things close to your vest.
But this…,this was different.
He wanted to scream his secret to the world, release the burden, feel normal again.
He stopped. Blinked. He was so deep in thought, he never even was aware of where he was going. He found himself in the laundry room in the basement of the hotel he was staying. Huge industrial washing machines were noisily tumbling, and sudsing, and bleaching sheets, towels, linens, drapes. The noise was incredible. Can’t think here, he thought, and turned to leave.
Then he saw the old woman.
Old hag, he thought, and was immediately ashamed. But, she did remind him of one of the witches in Macbeth. She wore a grey dress that was more like a sack. Tattered. Well worn, unwashed. Lived in. Her long grey hair covered her face as she bent over a basket. Her hump was noticeable. The clothes in the basket though were striking. With gnarled hands she brought out a blue-gray suit, a dark blue tie,and a white shirt with gray stripes, and proceeded to put them in the washing machine. He was bemused, intrigued. Whose clothes are those? Is the old woman his mother? Doesn’t he care?
Then, she slowly walked, though walking wasn’t really the word, hobbled was more accurate, to the sink by the corner of the room, and filled a large bucket with water. Once filled, she carried it to the machine, listing left from the weight , looking as if she’d fall over. And he felt ashamed again, for he never even had a thought to help her. She had her burdens, he had his. His face grew hot. You’re a better man than this, he thought. He was about to apologize, when a thought hit him.
I could tell her. I could. I won’t mention names, but, I could give her the meat of the confession, the juicy bits, the parts I need to exorcise from my mind. Raised a Catholic, he did think of going to a confessional box and confessing his sin, but, he was a firm believer that some sins are unforgivable. He was sure he was bound for Hell. No, he thought, no priest, this, this is better.
“Excuse me, ma’am-” She ignored him as she lifted the bucket, and ,trembling, poured the water in the washing machine. ” Ma’am? Uh, sorry, but, you don’t need to do that. It’s automatic. Ma’am?”
Then she took out a silver comb, began to comb her hair, and sing. No, it was not singing, it was heartbreaking, the saddest sound he ever heard. Tears ran down his face, he began to sob, the air around stifled him, choked him, despair invaded every cell in his body, he wept for the world, he wept openly, without shame, and fell to his knees as great wracking sobs enveloped him. Still singing, lamenting, the old woman stopped combing, and began washing the clothes with her gnarled hands.
Then she looked at him, and he saw her face. She was old, ancient, blind. Her eyes were white orbs, pale as a gibbous moon, unseeing, but, seeing something other. He felt his soul shrivel in her gaze. Her skin was parchment, dry, and thin. The wrinkles were infinite.There didn’t seem to be a smooth area anywhere on her face. Her nose was long and had a large wart on the end of it. The hair from the wart curled almost to her bloodless lips. Huge boils erupted around her scrawny neck, pustules covered what he could see of her chest. Her mouth opened and he saw black, swollen gums, more boils on the inside of her cheeks, and her tongue was grey and torn.
She pointed an arthritic finger at him, and wailed.
He covered his ears because the wail was so piercing. It seemed to penetrate his soul. The screeching began to make him shake with intense vibration. His teeth hurt, his ears felt as if they were bleeding, his bones ached fiercely. The keening was so chilling, fear took hold and he screamed.
He heard a crack! from afar, and his throat hurt. Then he began to have chest pain, finally a massive headache as his head snapped back, and to the left. He groaned, and fell to the floor. The earsplitting wail shattered his senses, and he lay on the floor curled up in a fetal position, begging her to stop.
Then, mercifully, silence. He opened his eyes, and laughed. He’d never felt such relief in his life. Hell, even the mur-
“Mr. President? Sir? Are you alright?”
He looked up and saw Sam, one of his secret service men. He had his gun drawn, and was looking around the room.
When the President lifted his head, he saw that the old woman was gone. In fact, he saw no bucket, or basket, or, clothes, or any sign she’d even existed.
He shivered, and felt chills along his spine. I’ve lost it, he thought, I’ve gone insane.
“Mr. President. We must go back to your room, sir, please.”
“Yes, yes, give me a minute, Sam.” Did I imagine the whole thing? Are all the bats in my belfry? Christ, am I like Rosemary? He remembered his sister, the unsuccessful lobotomy.
“Mr President! I must insist!”
“Yes! Yes! Let’s go, then, dammit!”
“There’s a crowd waiting for you outside. Must be close to 5 thousand. There’s a light rain. I’ll get an umbrella.Your wife is rather worried. Well, we all are, sir.”
“What time’s the flight to Dallas?”
“11.00am, Sir”
Ok, take a deep breath,put on your presidential face, and after Dallas, try to figure out what the hell just happened.
It was Friday, November 22, 1963.

My Little Penis

My little Penis. Bad little penis. Useless little penis. Flaccid little penis. Me down. Little penis down. Me up. Little penis down. Me alive. Little penis dead. Blood boils. Bloodless little penis. Me hot. Me rage. Me cry. Little penis dry. Little penis bad. Knife good. Knife sharp. Me grimace. Hand shake. Me sweat. First cut. Little penis move! Little penis grow! Second cut. Little penis big! Little penis hard! Final cut. Me scream. Me faint. Me wake. No little penis. Little penis gone. Little penis gone? Little penis gone! Me look. Eyes wide. Heart hammers. Where’s little penis? There’s little penis! Caterpillar penis. Escaping little penis! Me jump. Me run. Me trip. Me fall. Me scream. Me swallow. Me choke. Me cho-

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