B&W

Corridors

He.

He's a hunter without His prey.

His lips are parched and His stomach is barren. Afflicted with a biting hunger, He paces the tight corridors toward a brighter tomorrow, but tonight, tonight He's run-down, sick, and alone.

Slivers of memory whet His appetite with adrenaline, and the instinct to chase, to pursue, run wild within His pulse. His veins are highways under starlit night skies, and they carry the lifeblood that reinvigorates Her.

She.

She's a crushed starlet without a night's sky as Her theater.

Her past is fogged with anonymous faces, and befouled with the slandering stupidity of dirty erections. Afflicted with desensitized senses, She stares through the tight corridors toward a brighter tomorrow, but tonight, tonight She's bruised, numb, and alone.

Her heartbeat pitapats disharmony that lure the depraved, but Her fists are clenched. She has a thirst for vengeance, but resigns herself to the shadows that crowd around Her.

Their gazes interlock–She and He–and for a moment, even the moon loses sight of Who is preying upon Who.

Profanities

Your faces are profanities whispered into My left ear while I sleep.

I've had enough. No longer will you do such things to Me.

Our relationship is now an undocumented exorcism–too inconsequential to have scribbled a synopsis. You wretched lamia. Never will you do such things to Me.

Slither back to the shifting shadows from whence you came, and disperse into oblivion–your new resting place–far away from Me.

A Quiet and Stealth Embezzlement from the Purse of a Lesbian Enemy

Do you love her? I didn't think so.

Has she gotten on your last nerve yet? Yes, it was bound to happen.

Normally these matters reveal themselves in the natural course of getting to know someone–a selfish tendency here, a narcissistic bent there, a controlling aspect, a condescending disposition–all personality quirks that fester, like pus from an infected tooth.

Play dumb, or aloof. Nobody ever suspects the quiet one. When the moment is ripe, carry out your flimflam in an efficient, yet thrustful manner. Make it your perverse performance art.

Focus, you need to embezzle as much cash as you can from her. My bank account is a bit scant at the moment, so we're going to have to live off the pickings from your vulva victims. I'm sure you've chosen wisely. Do not waste your time and pussy on the poor–only target those you can derive the maximum resource extraction from.

I'm going to need $35.83 by next Wednesday for a small purchase. Sneak the cash from her purse while she's asleep. Keep her little mind occupied on all the Pride festivities this weekend, and make sure you intoxicate her proficiently. We need to keep this ruse going, so try to be stealth in your actions.

PayPal Me the money, and I thank you in advance Babydoll.

Artless

Little girl–chasing popularity, squirming for approval. I see right through you.

Your insecurities are blatant–glaring even. Who are you trying to impress? Your followers? Followers?! Do you really think they give a FUCK about you?

No.

What they came to see is a free show as they churn their meat, scrolling through an endless flesh feed in their available hand.

Exposed vanity–a consequence of her anxiety at being alone with no reassurances, no feedback, no likes, no chatter.

Silence.

She makes social media her life's work, setting her foundation on shifting sands. But vanity rusts artlessly in an air of mediocrity.

An ejaculatory personal inferno at the 2nd Circle of Hell JcPenny's

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

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

If you find yourself at the JC Penny's, beware of the young empusa that works in the fitting room, her treacheries have been witnessed first hand by your Dragon Master from afar.

As you undress, she will enter the fitting room and violate your genitals with her four hands, working in an efficient and malevolent manner.

Her technique will elicit a toxic ejaculatory personal inferno, caustic seminal fluids of which will sentence your urethra to death as it vomits from the tip of your corroding, melting dick.

Requiem of Our Cotton-Mouth Specters

Many sat around Him at the mouth of a dried-out lake bed one summer afternoon. Having their splintering attention, The Dragon Master spoke thus:

The swelter of introspection distills us into multiples. Impurities of which are cast into vapor. Take heed of the remaining condensation, for it is the requiem of our cotton-mouth specters.

Without warning, He spit onto the cracked dirt, and stayed there until it had evaporated in the broil of the afternoon heat.

Dysphoric Meanderings of a Virtual Anomaly

I was awakened mid-sleep by rustling noises outside my lair. I went outside and flashed my light in the direction of the dead of night disturbance expecting to find the elusive possum that's been unscrupulously dining on the unripened tangerines from one of my fruit trees.

Instead, it was her–the pestilence that's been keeping me from resting in peace. She was cowering half-baked, behind my water heater hoping not to be noticed, but I knew she was there–I recognized her posture and scent.

I turned around and went back inside, leaving her outside to meander around in her dysphoria under the probing fire of the moon in Leo.

A Fruit Tart A Day Keeps the Cancer Cough Away

It was insufferably hot for a picnic in the park, so we roosted in the concealment of my shadowy lair instead.

We sprawled our sweaty bodies atop her Solapuri Chaddar she had extended on the floor, seeking salvation from the condemning inferno rays of afternoon summer outside.

She brought me borsch, matzo ball soup, potato salad, and a fruit tart that made me feel loved–I really like fruit tarts.

We discussed my cancer health, and thereafter, easy things...like the buffoonery of my sworn enemies.

After we said our goodbyes I went inside, laid down, and finished my fruit tart in bed. It's good to have friends that understand you.

Serrated Inhalations

Her latest sadistic pleasure has been the dragging of barbed wire across My liver and abdominal muscles.

Shallow breathing helps, but I've had a cold, so with each forceful cough I feel the rusty metal pierce indiscriminately.

She scorns Me throughout the day with stabbing zeal, and I can hear the heckles of her heels as she dances with unfeigned malevolence.

Little does she know I have murderous intent, and her days are numbered.

The Dying Man Who Gasped Ignored Gasps

The evening before My neighbor in bed 12C was to be transported back home for his remaining hospice days, his anxiety began to set in.

His pleas for help were attended less frequently over the course of the night, as the overworked and overstretched Filipino nurse attended to her other patients.

Eventually, we learned to ignore his wilting gasps and groans of pain so that our weak bodies could scavenge for sleep.

His dying noises gradually blended into the ambient hospital drone of bedside monitors, overhead pages, and caffeinated chatter of graveyard shift nurses in the fluorescent-lit hallway.

It's funny how quickly we forget the dying around us when our own lives persecute our thoughts. Maybe that's why we dream wonderfully absurd dreams–to find temporary asylum from the reality of our impending mortality.