B&W Portraits

In a Blink of an Eye

Working with models is always a little slippery. Inevitably, they’ll bring with them expectations for the outcome of a shoot that almost never coaligns with my creative desires. Most of the time, they're looking for a beautiful and flattering image, but what I'm looking to capture is something more interesting, something visually arresting. What good is a photograph if it doesn't compel the viewer to to look at it, and resists being forgotten?

For instance, occasionally I'll "accidentally" press the shutter as they're blinking–this is actually a lot harder to time than you'd think. Try doing that with another person without saying a word–it's tough.

A regular black and white portrait turns into a shifting moment of quiet delirium.

Reminder to Self

Some people, no doubt, are born, and destined, to be common, to live out their lives to no significant purpose, but that is relatively rare...Most people have the power to be creative, and some have it in a god-like degree...But many people–perhaps even most–are content with the passing pleasures and satisfactions of the animal side of our nature. Indeed, many people will account their lives to be successful if they get through them with only minimal pain, with pleasant divergence from moment to moment and day-to-day, and the general approval of those around them. And this, notwithstanding that they often have within them the ability to do something which perhaps no other human being has ever done. Merely to do what others have done is often safe, and comfortable; but to do something truly original, and do it well, whether it is appreciated by others or not–that is what being human is really all about, and it is alone what justifies the self-love that is pride.
— Richard Taylor, Restoring Pride

Pustule

I itch. I scratch. I now bleed.

I look down, and feel the warm ooze of sanguine fluid as I rub my middle finger and thumb together, mixing inconspicuous amounts of pimple pus into the crimson stain drying before My curious eyes.

I look up–she's looking back at Me.

I'm devoid of shame, and she doesn't gag.

We've both had our fair share of pimple pus grace our blemished lives, and we're stronger for it when people stare.

Greys, Gloom, and Gas

Verily, I say unto you, you will know them by their feculent underwear, and stinking tastes–tastes that are sullied from their malcontent.

Their idiocy glistens in the midmorning sunshine as hurried pedestrians shield their somnambulant gaze with their unoccupied hand, phone in other–greys and gloom emanating from their glowing screens.

I watch, as the colors intermingle with the perverse stench of a Guatemalan woman's flatulence next to Me on the bus. I start to feel that familiar feeling of animosity toward them–I need a horse blanket to wrap Myself with, to mask the suffocating reek of stupidity, mediocrity, and silent stranger fart.

Fortunately, the world doesn't function to serve herd animals and their little joys, and occasionally, plagues eradicate the weak.

Salivary Malaise at the 2nd Circle of Hell Sizzler

In the second circle of Hell, there exists a godforsaken mall across the street from the ice cream parlor.

Wheezing inside the intestines of the desolation, only two establishments are still in business: JC Penny's, and the Sizzler in the food court.

If you find yourself at the Sizzler, beware of the young ardat lili that works the dinner shift, her treacheries have been witnessed first-hand by your DragnMastr from afar.

As you dine, she will linger behind your unknowing back and drool onto your muddy salad.

Her saliva consists of a diseased, larval-like substance–of the same DNA strain of maggot that grovel the floors of the damp and gloomy charnal house where she embalms the putrefying corpses of the dead with her sinful mouth.

Her oral secretions swaddle the decaying meat of genitalia with fungal ecstasy, preserving it for the posterity of the sexually damned.

You have been forewarned.

The Apologetics of Rage: The Case for Vengeance in a Civilized Society

I want you to listen, and listen carefully My disciples.

The best motivation for anything in life, is RAGE.

Forgive Me. I don't know what came over Me. How foolish of Me. Allow Me a moment to regain My fleeting composure.

The best motivation for anything in life, is love–a love for VENGEANCE.

Sweet, delectable vengeance. My divine ambrosia. My nonextinguishable fuel. My loyal companion.

When I start to feel the dejection trickle down My spine, and the easy temptation of forgiveness caresses the back of My neck, you spur Me on with the simple, yet unrelenting pierce of memory. No, I won't forget what she's done.

And I have a perverse delight in knowing that she's nearing 30, and her new lesbian lover is showing signs of wear and tear as well.

But I, HA. I will indulge in the tight, yet ripe freshness of a barely-legal remedy...whomever that may be–I don't know her yet, but I will.

And when I'm lapping up the stale innocence between her thighs, I'll think back at those two who've wronged Me, frolicking under the sheets in their sea of loose skin, and sagging pleasures. All while I snack on My teen dream, undisturbed–peace of mind, peace of taut ass inches from My FACE.

And that will be My sublime revenge. I will make SURE of it.

Thus spoke, The Impeccable One.

The Untold Story of the Feral Egg that Appeared Beside My Bed

I once found a feral egg beside My bed, so I brooded atop it out of an overwhelming sense of guilt. On a nightly basis, My Abuela would quietly enter My lair to supervise My nesting technique.

On a warm, yet foreboding evening, much like the one today, it hatched without complications, and We raised it with an attentive and tender disposition, before killing it on its third birthday for supper.

I think about it from time to time, and My initial guilt has since dispersed into a self-gratified nostalgia.

Cognizance by Osmosis

In the wake of dreamless sleep, you will cease to be estranged from yourself, and become reacquainted with your eternal past.

The sound of larval beetles chewing through stubborn tendon jerky becomes a distant echo.

You will transcend terrestrial restraints and concerns, and permeate space time into the next dimension, the next horizon of consciousness.

It is so.

Thus spoke, The DragnMastr.

An Admonition of a Bushwhacking

"My pussy bites!" she proclaimed.

"And so let it bite," I replied.

"I will bushwhack your aggressions, simultaneously as I clip My toenails cloaked in shadow. Do you dare seek retribution against Me? If so, bring reinforcements, for I am armed with obscene RAGE and unreasonable VIOLENCE. As you set afoot My lair, and the mournful scent of frangipani strokes your nostril cilia, it becomes apparent your phantom pussy has bitten off more than it can chew. It is so. Do you find My admonition incredulous? Go ask the previous girl. Her menstrual blood still saturates My bedsheets."

Thus spoke, The DragnMastr.

A Midnight of Nostalgic Meandering

Barely legal, but brimming with sin. Your body may be tender, but your heart has been hardened, from the men you've let in.

Daddy issues? Of course. But that's a given. Now you have many, and they have sugar aplenty. It's ok, you are forgiven.

Remember when I'd pick you up and we'd perv, laugh, and frolick together? You were My little bird, and you know what they say about birds of a feather.

My little darkling, My teenage succubus, My twatanic, I look forward when we meet again, so you can lubricate My stiffness like a shop mechanic.

Til then virtual anomaly, and whatever you do, don't forget to write to Me.

The Desolation of My Beautiful Almost

I stepped outside of My shadow lair, and sat underneath the inviting shade of an adjacent avocado tree to eat My afternoon breakfast. Perched atop a flimsy branch, surveying Me from above was the kitten I used to frolick with from before, except, she was no longer a kitten anymore.

The seasons had been rough to her, and she wore the marks of weathered reproach from her new master–Desolation.

Sensing that My absence had been her cat-'o-nine-tails, I threw a piece of fried plantain I was eating toward the base of the tree, in hopes that she would descend from her high-squat, and join Me.

But alas, she just sat there, unmoving, while the ants devoured My peace offering in earnest.

I longed to have her in My arms, and play, but some things are better cast away.

Accept

It's been an unacceptable amount of time since I've last seen you–obscene almost, in its length.

How I long to trace the slender contours of your feline body with My hard desire.

I've heard it said to love in such a way that the person you love feels free, but I refuse to adhere to such docile beliefs. My Dionysian Spirit chuckles disdainfully at harmony and balance–It feeds on frenzied obsession, and Kitten, you are Mine.

Take My hand, and allow yourself to free fall into the unchartered depths of your shadow depravity.

ACCEPT.