Draco Dominus

Burning in Knowledge, Drowning in Faith

I walked along neglected trails, following a foreign light that led into a dreary forest that clutched tomblike secrets. Step by step I could feel restless bodies stir below My feet, their decomposed limbs entangled within the roots of the earth, and as they groaned for redemption the ground convulsed like a mother holding her stillborn baby for the first time.

Every so often the canopy loosened its bony grip over Me, revealing cannibalistic skies that consumed everything within it, except for the slew of winged serpents that possessed an unexplainable immunity. I stopped for a moment to rest, and admired their grace and beauty as they soared without end–they breathed not fire, but ancient knowledge.

In those days the great serpent was said to be bad, but as I forged ahead, I inhaled the naked understanding that bad is the siamese head of good, and both are protruding atop our torso, looking at eachother, for we are the great serpent, and we are eating ourselves alive. In His infinite wisdom, The Lord, our God, is voyeur to the devouring of flesh and spirit of His children, and that is neither good, nor bad, but necessary.

But only the illuminated will master that unavoidable fate, and find refuge in the bottomless skies above, far removed from the legion that murmur below.

The Divine Right of the Creep Kings

Think what you will, but We are aristocrats sitting on your thrones. You see, We've conquered the inner maelstrom, and quelled the discriminating gaze that never blinks. Our unapologetic compulsions open doors, of which we infiltrate, without shame, and therein lie Our virtue. Everyone else? Merely plebs, mucking about in their hypocrisy and self-consciousness.

I'd rather be a creep king living in exile, than a groveling peasant living the rest of their days under the unbending rule of social politeness.

Reflecting on My Mortality

On this day last year, I coughed up some blood while shampooing my head in the shower. I remember chuckling to myself as I remembered Sweet Brown's timeless lines, "...I got BRONCHITIS. Ain't nobody got time for that!"

I wasn't too concerned on the drive to the ER–I even remember being mildly annoyed at the inconvenience of having to go to a county hospital on a weekend night and wait among the cockroach people, a result of my shitty insurance, and poverty of my own. I figured I had acquired bronchitis or pneumonia over the past few months, after all, I usually washed my darkroom prints outside following my all-night printing sessions, sometimes in the rain.

"Fuck, I knew I should've worn a jacket more often," I grumbled to myself.

To my surprise, I didn't have to wait too long, and at 9:19 pm an ER nurse called my name and escorted me inside to be assessed (apparently breathing problems are taken serious, so if you ever want to game the system and be seen ahead of everybody else at the ER, just tell them you can't breathe).

At 5:23 am, the following morning, I walked out of there, not with bronchitis or pneumonia, but with cancer. In the following days to come I would return to that building, be placed in the ICU as the aggressive tumor that housed my chest cavity threatened to send me into cardiac arrest, and started emergency chemotherapy.

A year later, and I'm grateful to say I'm alive, living with a dead tumor spooning my heart and lungs, but alive nonetheless. Thank you to all the Filipino nurses, online strangers who sent me words of encouragement on here, and IRL friends who brought me food during my week-long chemo sessions, I appreciate you all.

Origins: The Epistemology of DragnMastr13

And in those early years I was met with much derision. My ideas were spat on, and My appearance mocked by the popular majority, or "the head lice" as I preferred to call them. I was a vagabond in their hearts, and in that sparsely-imaginationed town, they were weary of vagabonds.

I had never particularly worried about superficial things like My blameless poverty, erratic dance technique, or acne-prone skin, but the rabid women and their court of white knights made sure that their grievances with Me were internalized–and so it came to pass that I developed a vitamin D deficiency from My aversion to the outside world, but nothing a prescription couldn't handle.

Piece by piece I started assembling a little nest for Myself, which later would become the current incarnation of My "shadow lair"–a working studio/darkroom where I could lose Myself in the limitless depths of My imagination–a space where I could nurture My budding photography obsession. Books too became My escape–dead thinkers who provided much-needed companionship, guidance, and warmth during those formative years. Staying in became something I looked forward to, instead of something I self-pitied over.

But when the day came, it was as clear as the void of light reflected from My raw obsidian collection–it was time to emerge out of the wilderness, and make My personal legend known to the world. I no longer dreaded the head lice people–I saw their opinions of Me for what they were–a minor nuisance, but nothing of consequence.

And thus DragnMastr13 was conceived.


The Ecstasy of the Rats

I'm sorry, but I refuse to see you again.

You've discarded My heart like a piece of excess ribeye fat.

You meticulously sliced Me out of your royal court, and left Me to get gobbled up by the alley rats in the dumpster.

I live with that reality day in, day out. And I'm reminded of My grim fate every afternoon, when I wake up and see your black choker collecting dust on My nightstand, forlorn and lost at the base of My 3-legged, porcelain egg.

But I'll get past this gloomy season. Afterall, the rats are My saints.

Lord of The Shadowlands

Hearken unto Me, for I am Lord of The Shadowlands, The Impeccable One, DragnMastr13, and I reign supreme under the cool breeze of My mastery.

Obstinately I sit, gazing defiantly into the smoldering shrills of your mind's orchestra pit.


I scoff at the dancing embers attempting to charbroil My feet! Do they not know I take pleasure in extinguishing them under the full brunt of My umami heel? Nay. They do not know. But let it be known.

And let it also be known that the trumpets will sound, and the herald will tout with great jubilation My praecantatio.

Galloping on spotted horseback will I be, striding past the gates of your myopic psychology.

Thus spoke, The DragnMastr.

I Am

I am The Impeccable One–anointed to thrust His sword.

I am The DragnMastr–DragnMastr13–and I am mastering the shadow serpent within, having slain The Great Dragon clad in red, black, and white scales of deception.

I have walked alongside The Grim Reaper, looked over the eternal cliffs of dreamless sleep, and hardened Myself against the vertigo of looming death.

The outcome?

A metamorphosis of mind–I am a mountain.

Nothing can move Me.

Nothing can shake Me.

Nothing can diminish Me.

And yet, I have been moved. I have been shaken. I have been diminished.

But I am a blackhole–swallowing the fears, doubts, and insecurities that cross My event horizon–infinitely in a state of expansion.