People will often confuse my kindness for weakness, and take my warm interest in them for granted. Occasionally, after my patience has blistered into malcontent, I’ll eviscerate them with an unapologetic chill.

I’ve always found that respect is reaped out of distance and apathy–a rebalancing of the scales that reminds them that my presence in their life is indeed a gift.

Swans and Swines

I have two beasts roaming inside me. One is connected to the earth–sensual, empathetic, loving. And the other? He’s primal, unpredictable, and conceals cruelty as his switchblade.

I vacillate between the two–between making love, and brute fucking; caressing, and shoving my fingers down accepting mouths; between caring for my elderly grandmother, and driving to your place after she’s gone to bed, and your boyfriend’s out of town.

I don’t feel any psychological dissonance, or guilt. Maybe I’m just a sociopath, or perhaps, an honest saint that struggles with his human nature.



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'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.

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.

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.

A Mourning Realization On the Fickle Nature of Happiness

And they lived happily ever after...

The next morning, she looked over her shoulder and realized her Siamese twin was dead.

Interpretation: It is a naive fantasy to believe that people live happily ever after–happiness does not behave in that way. Happiness is fickle and does not owe you anything.

One moment you may be happy, and the next you are sharing rigor mortis with a clump of cadaverous meat and a contorted, pallor face staring blankly back at you. 

It is ok to be unhappy–it is part of the absurd order of things.

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.

Grope and Grip

The final diagnoses? Otitis media (middle ear infection), and contact dermatitis (skin rash).

This is the second time I've had otitis media in the past year, but the contact dermatitis? I mean, sure, I've had rashes here and there as a result of my sensitive skin, but one from a severe allergic reaction??

Before ultimately submitting to medical intervention, my initial investigation led me to the possibility of toxic black mold. I had discovered a small black patch growing discreetly in a corner of my fuck lair, and at once eradicated the insidious invasion. However, the fear had already entrenched itself as the poltergeist that would persecute my thoughts for the next couple of weeks.

After eradicating the toxic threat, and subsequent rounds of disinfection with the proper bleach solutions, I was still experiencing the pillaging and raping of my immune system: wheezing, severe itch attacks, rash outbreaks, itchy crawling eyes, and finally–middle ear infection, oh, and MORE hell itch!

In an attempt to self-diagnose myself, and eliminate the possibility of other causes, I licked the patch of wall that had incubated the black mold growth. My reasoning: upon licking, if my health rapidly deteriorated, I knew that the black intruder was to blame. Ensuing the licking, no real change had transpired, but I was on high alert. I was ready. But nothing happened.

The next day, after ruling out toxic black mold, I began a systematic analysis of possible allergen culprits: darkroom chemistry fumes, bed bugs, dust mites, pollen, aggressive masturbation, coffee, alcohol, abnormal sleep pattern. But my findings were inconclusive.

Eventually, after exacerbating middle ear pressure and pain, I decided to visit an urgent care clinic. The PA diagnosed me. The causes? Unknown.

Let this be a lingering lesson for all you haughty cockroaches, even The DragnMastr’s puppeteer submits to the indiscriminate grope and grip of Mother Nature.

A Declaration

It's been an entire month since the severity of your scent has faded from the accepting pores of my skin–along with the dwindling blood supply to my throbbing and earnest cock.

I will accept the withdrawal, the delirium, the confusion, the derision EVERY, SINGLE, TIME, if it means being able to press my pulsating and urgent manhood up against the perilous heights of your body, mind, soul.

Your spell is the mutiny wreaking havoc inside my consciousness.

I declare WAR.