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Description
I.

It is 1875 and Mother has just told me that
Father died this evening. I suppose his
heart failed, but it does not matter. It
reminds me of Brother, who
died from his brain drowning in
fluids.

Unable to
care for her son any longer,
Mother sends me to an Orphanage, nice place she says, by the name of
Saint John's.

I do not like Saint John's, Mother still
writes, tells me to
call it home.

II.

5am-7am: The doors are
beaten upon with
fists so filled with anger. With spite. With
holy intentions. This morning I
awoke late and missed breakfast.
It is no worry to me, for
all they feed us every morning is grey
slop, in
little troughs they call bowls.

8am: Again with the
beating on doors, the
orders shouted with
terse control. We are
all ordered out of our rooms and into
the auditorium, where

So many pairs of eyes all stare at us, from behind
coifs and veils. We are
all told to strip nude and then they
beat us, with their hands or
rulers or
sometimes cords.

It is of
no surprise to me. I
only cower slightly, it
happens all the time.

In fact, it is a manner of things
I am so acclimated to, that
it now becomes pleasure, and
causes me to
stiffen.

The boys all make fun of me for this, but
Rupert (the newsboy) later says it's all
fine.

III.

I like Rupert.
At age 10 my Mother came into a job and
Took me in again.

Missed the beatings, but
Rupert was my friend.
Our own bodily fluids
became sacrament, golden showers were
our holy water, red trickle our
wine.
Sometimes I
snuck into public baths so I could
watch all the other boys undress. It
made me wonder what it would be like to
beat them, too.

But my, oh my, did I get my kicks now
Off of nice jackets, exquisite hats, and
the letters I wrote to old widows in the
Classifieds,
pertaining to the precise nature of
their undergarments.

IV.

Had some kids. Had a wife. All arranged.
Had several boys, several children, mostly under the age of six.
Interest in castration. Wax museum. Tried to tie a boy to the bed and
see for myself.

Wife leaves me. There are voices in the walls. God tells me to
do certain things.

29 needles, inserted slowly into
pelvis, and
4 rows of nails paddled against the
back.

It is through this, that I find
Salvation.

V.

Killed a boy today, by the name of
Thomas Bedden.

And bedhim, I did, even
tasted his cranial fluids.

VI.

God now tells me that,
In addition to the 29 needles,
4 rows of nails,
daily lacerations…
I have a further mission.

Too many boys on this earth,
far too much libido.
Maybe I'll
castrate them, maybe I'll
eat them up like soup.

VII (Billy Gaffney).

I'm the boogey man, yes I
Am. And poor old
Billy did cry and cry for his mother.

I brought him to the Riker Ave. dumps. There is a house that stands alone, not far from where I took him. I took the boy there. Stripped him naked and tied his hands and feet and gagged him with a piece of dirty rag I picked out of the dump (tears did indeed run
down his cheeks). Then I
burned his clothes.

Next day about 2 P.M., I took tools, a good heavy cat-of-nine tails. Home made. Short handle. Cut one of my belts in half, slit these halves in six strips about 8 inches long. I whipped his bare behind till the
blood ran from his legs.

I cut off his ears – nose – slit his mouth from ear to ear. Gouged out his eyes. He was dead by then. I stuck the knife in his belly and held my mouth to his body and
drank his blood. I picked up four old potato sacks and gathered a pile of stones.
Then I cut him up, a neat cut, right across the middle of his body. Just below the belly button. Then through his legs about 2 inches below his behind. I cut off the head – feet – arms – hands and the legs below the knee, and
threw the rest (weighted with stones) into
pools of slimy water.

VIII (Recipe).

Stew out of the ears, nose, pieces of face and belly. Add onions, carrots, turnips, celery, salt and pepper (to taste).

Place strips of
bacon (or ham) across each
gluteus maximus, roast in
oven. Add
a pint of water, onions. Baste with
wooden spoon. Done in about
2 hours, better than
any turkey I've ever tasted.

IX (Grace Budd).

Young man, 18, wishes position in country.
Signed as Edward Budd, 406 West 15th Street, Manhattan.
And sister by the name of
Gracie, I should
like to have her, too.

On Sunday June the 3, 1928 I called on you at 406 W 15 St. Brought you pot cheese—strawberries. We had lunch. Grace sat in my lap and kissed me. I made up my mind to eat her. On the pretense of taking her to a party. You said yes she could go. I took her to an empty house in Westchester I had already picked out. When we got there, I told her to remain outside. She picked wildflowers.

How sweet and tender, the flesh
lasted me all of 9 days.

X (Arrest).

N.Y.P.C.B.A., you caught me
(brandishing a razor blade). You
clever little detective you. I
meant to kill Edward too. I won't deny it. The taste of flesh is so sweet. Didn't even
need the sex. But still ejaculated twice (involuntarily) as I
wrapped my old hands around Gracie's frail
neck.

I plead insanity. The
voices from God, from
John the Apostle.

Coprophilia, urophilia, masochism, pedophilia.
I saw little Gracie as a boy. By
Sacrificing so many (little boys, little children), I serve
penance for my sins, much like the story of
Abraham and Isaac. And cannibalism is
my communion, the very
blood of Christ pulses through the veins of
every young boy (it is what
makes their flesh so
white, so porcelain, so
nubile).

The sentence is death
by the electric chair.
I don't even know why I'm here.
Two jolts before I
finally fall
to Eden, or, perhaps more accurately, to
Adam.

Description
I.

It is 1875 and Mother has just told me that
Father died this evening. I suppose his
heart failed, but it does not matter. It
reminds me of Brother, who
died from his brain drowning in
fluids.

Unable to
care for her son any longer,
Mother sends me to an Orphanage, nice place she says, by the name of
Saint John's.

I do not like Saint John's, Mother still
writes, tells me to
call it home.

II.

5am-7am: The doors are
beaten upon with
fists so filled with anger. With spite. With
holy intentions. This morning I
awoke late and missed breakfast.
It is no worry to me, for
all they feed us every morning is grey
slop, in
little troughs they call bowls.

8am: Again with the
beating on doors, the
orders shouted with
terse control. We are
all ordered out of our rooms and into
the auditorium, where

So many pairs of eyes all stare at us, from behind
coifs and veils. We are
all told to strip nude and then they
beat us, with their hands or
rulers or
sometimes cords.

It is of
no surprise to me. I
only cower slightly, it
happens all the time.

In fact, it is a manner of things
I am so acclimated to, that
it now becomes pleasure, and
causes me to
stiffen.

The boys all make fun of me for this, but
Rupert (the newsboy) later says it's all
fine.

III.

I like Rupert.
At age 10 my Mother came into a job and
Took me in again.

Missed the beatings, but
Rupert was my friend.
Our own bodily fluids
became sacrament, golden showers were
our holy water, red trickle our
wine.
Sometimes I
snuck into public baths so I could
watch all the other boys undress. It
made me wonder what it would be like to
beat them, too.

But my, oh my, did I get my kicks now
Off of nice jackets, exquisite hats, and
the letters I wrote to old widows in the
Classifieds,
pertaining to the precise nature of
their undergarments.

IV.

Had some kids. Had a wife. All arranged.
Had several boys, several children, mostly under the age of six.
Interest in castration. Wax museum. Tried to tie a boy to the bed and
see for myself.

Wife leaves me. There are voices in the walls. God tells me to
do certain things.

29 needles, inserted slowly into
pelvis, and
4 rows of nails paddled against the
back.

It is through this, that I find
Salvation.

V.

Killed a boy today, by the name of
Thomas Bedden.

And bedhim, I did, even
tasted his cranial fluids.

VI.

God now tells me that,
In addition to the 29 needles,
4 rows of nails,
daily lacerations…
I have a further mission.

Too many boys on this earth,
far too much libido.
Maybe I'll
castrate them, maybe I'll
eat them up like soup.

VII (Billy Gaffney).

I'm the boogey man, yes I
Am. And poor old
Billy did cry and cry for his mother.

I brought him to the Riker Ave. dumps. There is a house that stands alone, not far from where I took him. I took the boy there. Stripped him naked and tied his hands and feet and gagged him with a piece of dirty rag I picked out of the dump (tears did indeed run
down his cheeks). Then I
burned his clothes.

Next day about 2 P.M., I took tools, a good heavy cat-of-nine tails. Home made. Short handle. Cut one of my belts in half, slit these halves in six strips about 8 inches long. I whipped his bare behind till the
blood ran from his legs.

I cut off his ears – nose – slit his mouth from ear to ear. Gouged out his eyes. He was dead by then. I stuck the knife in his belly and held my mouth to his body and
drank his blood. I picked up four old potato sacks and gathered a pile of stones.
Then I cut him up, a neat cut, right across the middle of his body. Just below the belly button. Then through his legs about 2 inches below his behind. I cut off the head – feet – arms – hands and the legs below the knee, and
threw the rest (weighted with stones) into
pools of slimy water.

VIII (Recipe).

Stew out of the ears, nose, pieces of face and belly. Add onions, carrots, turnips, celery, salt and pepper (to taste).

Place strips of
bacon (or ham) across each
gluteus maximus, roast in
oven. Add
a pint of water, onions. Baste with
wooden spoon. Done in about
2 hours, better than
any turkey I've ever tasted.

IX (Grace Budd).

Young man, 18, wishes position in country.
Signed as Edward Budd, 406 West 15th Street, Manhattan.
And sister by the name of
Gracie, I should
like to have her, too.

On Sunday June the 3, 1928 I called on you at 406 W 15 St. Brought you pot cheese—strawberries. We had lunch. Grace sat in my lap and kissed me. I made up my mind to eat her. On the pretense of taking her to a party. You said yes she could go. I took her to an empty house in Westchester I had already picked out. When we got there, I told her to remain outside. She picked wildflowers.

How sweet and tender, the flesh
lasted me all of 9 days.

X (Arrest).

N.Y.P.C.B.A., you caught me
(brandishing a razor blade). You
clever little detective you. I
meant to kill Edward too. I won't deny it. The taste of flesh is so sweet. Didn't even
need the sex. But still ejaculated twice (involuntarily) as I
wrapped my old hands around Gracie's frail
neck.

I plead insanity. The
voices from God, from
John the Apostle.

Coprophilia, urophilia, masochism, pedophilia.
I saw little Gracie as a boy. By
Sacrificing so many (little boys, little children), I serve
penance for my sins, much like the story of
Abraham and Isaac. And cannibalism is
my communion, the very
blood of Christ pulses through the veins of
every young boy (it is what
makes their flesh so
white, so porcelain, so
nubile).

The sentence is death
by the electric chair.
I don't even know why I'm here.
Two jolts before I
finally fall
to Eden, or, perhaps more accurately, to
Adam.