spider hacksaw eats & is eaten

spider hacksaw is alive&swell and living the nightmare @ lovely Noosehearse Asylum in lower downtown Hell Kitty U/S/A. join the play! “Pet the pretty flames, my lovely dovely, pet the pretty flames this way.” (LIKE) spider hacksaw on Facebook. Follow: spider hacksaw (on Twitter.)

“Murderous neighborhood-watch azzholes w/guns don’t kill young black men, hoodies do.” —random white racist (from: theoverheardword@diedumb.com by spider hacksaw wurld roolz vol. 3)

Lock Crick is abandoned by his parents at the age of four. His mother, Marybell leaves him with her sister, Ladybug Pudge, and her sister’s family, to be raised on their family’s farm.
A year after his arrival, Lock’s older cousin, Gideon Pudge, is diagnosed with brain cancer. Aunt Ladybug and Uncle Avon, choose to ignore medical treatment and instead pursue healing by God through the power of prayer, as prescribed by their church pastor.
Gideon Pudge dies a horribly agonizing death several months later, screaming from his bed in the attic, as Aunt Ladybug and Uncle Avon, pray night and day for a miracle. He is six years old.
Gideon is buried in the county Cemetery behind the farm. Lock turns five years old and he is now alone with his Aunt and Uncle.
Ladybug’s grief enters its full bloom. She begins to imagine that Lock is Gideon’s ghost, and that he is terribly lonely and if they do not find brothers and sisters for him, he will leave forever.
To ease his wife’s suffering, Avon Pudge begins kidnapping children. Boys and girls that resemble Gideon and Lock are what she prefers. He travels long distances to find the perfect opportunities to snatch the perfect children. Then he brings each one back, as a sacrifice to Ladybug’s insanity, in hopes that it will make her happy. Just as Ladybug hopes it will make Gideon’s ghost happy.
Within a year Ladybug reaches her point of no return. She hangs herself in the attic bedroom where her only child died, screaming as she prayed to an absent God.
Uncle Avon buries his wife alongside his son in the county cemetery. That night he goes to bed and sleeps for several days. When he wakes up, the Uncle that Lock had known is dead. He has been replaced by a monster, wearing his Uncle’s flesh. A monster named Avon Pudge.
The abuse of the orphan children intensifies from that day forward, as the monster tries to temper its own suffering with the infliction of suffering upon the rat child, or children, as they infest his home and the farm and properties he has now inherited from his dead wife’s family.
Years crawl by, like worms through a glass earth.
And now, at the age of nineteen, after a year in prison for the accidental killing of a hitchhiker on a dark country road in the pouring rain, Lock Crick has returned home, to the small town of Halo, to the farmhouse in hell, and to his orphan brothers and sisters.
It is here, upon this Halloween night and the eve of winter’s bane,
that we begin….

There is nothing to be afraid of here. And there is everything to be afraid of here. And there is something and nothing to be afraid of everywhere and anywhere. Always it exists. It is part of them also. Part of this flesh and these bones. They can not escape it forever. Not while they wear their skins. But they can always give in. They can always diminish it. They can always know that that is all it is. And that they are greater than even the sum of their own parts. That good and bad are one. That light and dark are one. That pain and pleasure are one. That mind and matter are one. There is nothing here but fear itself. Trying to fool them all. It is the changing form of the greatest masked ball. It is constant, endless, ceaseless and different. But within and beyond is nothing. The silence and stillness from where they come. From where everything is born and everything returns. Beyond ashes and dust. Birth and rot. Always and forever. Never and not. It is all just a game. And beyond the game is nothing. And nothing is everything.

My grandmother gave me my first book when I was about seven. It was “Old Yeller” and I cherished it as a spiritual gift from the greatest emotional benefactor a child could ever want. I loved the book, but it was more so the initiation to the salvation of reading that she passed on to me. It wasn’t long however, before I was reading Edgar Allan Poe. I was on a camping trip in the Colorado Rockies with my cousins when I found a little paperback book on one of those squeaking, rotating, metal book racks in a little souvenir shop in some small mountain town. The cover of the book reached out and grabbed my eyes and then my hand, heart and mind. And Before I knew it I was hooked. I first wrote the idea for A Midsummer’s Nightmare down as a poem from a recurring nightmare I had as a young boy. Then years later I wrote the whole story as a screenplay. And finally I have spent the last year or so writing it as a book. It is much like exorcising demons for me, writing. And I have finally abluted myself of these particular fiends, at least for now. And I have laid them here to rest in the pages of this story for a sacrifice to you, the reader. If you will receive my offering. And if it pleases you, or if it does not please you, there will be more oblation to come. Forever yours, S.H.

 My love for Lana Del Rey. It begins with her album title Born to Die. It is something that seems to contradict her album cover and most persons would attribute such a title to hardcore thrash metal. But i find in my own research and her lyrics that Lana Del Rey recognizes the essential truth of existence, that we are all born to die. I myself have spent some time pondering and studying the essence of death throughout existence within this current form/sack of matter, with regards to the part of the human mind that fears death because it is the part that does die, while there is a deeper presence within the mind that one finds, usually with meditation, that can be realized fully as eternal, it is the non ME, the non temporary silent stillness that is, if not a part of god, then the entirety of god. (note: i speak not of a god that can be labeled or owned by any religious group or doctrine, but the god that is not discernible or deformed by the human ME/YOU/US) At its least, Death is merely a costume change, a return backstage, to the nothingness. At its greatest, death is not just what we are born for, but what we are.

it’s so intoxicating the things you’re saying about the way the world works, but i can’t seem to separate the right words from the verbal left hooks, or your true intentions beneath those good looks, it’s a terrible crime how the mind lurks, creeping around the corners of some reception, painting it all with a sublime affection, when it’s all just spoken errors and fun house mirrors, feigning perfection, i can ignore it for the time being, pretending to calculate your meaning, pretending your attention is more than scheming, but i can only hide the truth for a little while, there’s something sinister in your style, a neatly buttoned and laced beguile, the scent of your cologne is called Murder Trial, after all, there’s an art of deception behind your smile, but i can’t seem to turn down the dial to take a call, before I fall, you drink and smoke and tell charming, somewhat alarming jokes, about your past, now we can goof around and laugh, wile away the hours, intimate and vast, but in the end every blue sky dies, and to ignore it forever would be unwise, the art of deception behind your eyes, you wear those sharp silver ties, that look like knives, i should have guessed by the blood red vest, and the pitch black heart as your jacket crest, but i can’t resist the temptation, i could never say no to a moment of bliss, life all comes down to the last few seconds, and in the end it’s always this, i fall victim to your sweet gift, a fool for your kiss. i can’t resist the hint of love in my pool of blood, nor the subtle scent of a Murder Trial, so elegantly expressed by the way you’ve dressed, in Sinister Style.

not trying to be here without you, not trying to mind, i’ve never forgotten to remember everything we came through to get here, this absolute nowhere, it gets so quiet in these crowds, how do we start over from scratch, how did we stray from the path, these lives go by so fast, can we find a way back to our birth, erase the mind, rewind the heart, it gets so quiet in these clouds, i’m dying to find out how love begins, just tell me again how it never ends, i can’t pass go, return, restart, shopping for you forever, in the luv-mart, i’m shopping for you my love, in the luv-mart, i’m here until the dawn of time, roaming the miles of aisles of time, shopping for you my love in the luv-mart, lost without my love, in the luv-mart, lost without my love in the luv-mart, lost without my love…. —-spiderhacksaw (@ the luv-mart)(copyright2012)

“Welcome to Starbugs Asylum in lovely NooseHearse, New England on a Neptune moon. Remember, the gate is always locked and your fate is always mocked at Starbugs Asylum.”—(spider hacksaw @ Starbugs Asylum)(on Neptune)(until June)(or so)(maybe longer)(we’ll see)(what the mad doctor Muther Moose orders)(did i say orders? I meant murders.)(The Mad Doctor Muther Moose Murders)(by spider hacksaw from bad dreams & screaming things)(raise the dead)

this is where i admit the crimes i commit. this is where I confess what i wear without a care was a mess, at the very best. this is where i beg for your compassion, for my crimes against fashion. I have worn two different colored socks (with sandals and a smock). I have dressed way too far outside of the box. I have worn fishnet pants while climbing endangered marine life moss covered rocks. I have worn battery operated Christmas Lights down by the Marina Del Rey Docks, I have worn a necklace and hat made out of parts from old grandfather clocks. I have worn ears that look like Spock’s. (and it wasn’t Halloween, if you know what I mean. Let’s just say it was on the edge of obscene) This is just the start of wearing my sleeve on my heart and the admitting of my committing a horrible fashion bashing. I await your tongue lashing so I can find some peace, to say the very least. I want to wash my conscious clean of this fashion disease. Waiter, my check please. — Dr. Muther Moose (by spider hacksaw)