The DM13 Journal
The tragedy of life is that you chose to remain nailed to the cross of mediocrity, never heeding the pleas of the soul to walk toward the future Self that was waiting for you on the other side.
Instead, you chose to rot, sauntering through lackadaisical days within the asylum of do-nothingness. And now, you have no one to blame, no one to curse, no one to spit at, but yourself.
Now accept your rightful damnation, you wretched sloth.
The moon burrows secrets on its hidden side, as do we, and we delight in them. As the night befalls our corrupt conscience, we boast in never getting caught. Lasciviousness comes at a price, but pleasure comes quicker. Until we meet again, I’ll be around.
Generally speaking, it is best to gain favor and influence through indirect means—like an insidious vapor that quietly pervades a room with its invisible presence.
But, as nothing in life is concrete, there will be times when employing a conquistador mindset will lead you to pinnacles of pleasure you’ve only ever imagined.
Force and vehemence then, should be your concealed weapons as you navigate the shifting terrain in your bedroom.
Ay, como me fascinan las brujas. Mis curiosidades me están dirigiendo a cuerpos extranjeros. Que placeres me esperan. Ave María purísima.
Heavy breathing from our shadows dancing against the walls.
Every secret delight with you leaves evidence–teethmarks on your neck.
Your lips against the moon.
My grip around the sun.
I've been looking for you.
After a certain length of time without hearing from her, I was convinced she had opted for the fish option, so I set out to find the answer.
Yes, I know. Let Me explain.
The young girls in that town were given the choice to remain terrestrial, or aquatic. If they chose the latter, there were secret methods the elders employed to bludgeon them into coy fish. No, not coi fish, coy fish. After metamorphosis, the eagerest of fishlings were hired by local botanical gardens to lure lonely men during the slow season–artfully exploiting their primordial inclinations toward conquest.
Personally, I chose not to frequent those places. As a dog returns to its vomit, so fools repeat their folly, and I had learned from My past experiences. Besides, there always seemed to be a malodorous current of bodily secretion and sin, and I had sensitive skin, so I would watch from afar. I have to admit though, it was fascinating to see how the fishlings and men would interact.
She understood that morality were oscillations–echos that rattled from facade to facade within the gothic cathedral of Self, and sometimes, I would rest nearby to be her gargoyle.
Last night I received a wrong-numbered phone call.
Not allowing this opportunity go to waste, perhaps against My better judgment, I engaged in an impromptu phone sex seduction.
Five hours later, as daybreak eased itself into the early morning, I realized that I had been the victim of orgasm vampirism.
After the 11th ejaculation, I turned My nightstand light on, looked down, and witnessed how raw and inflamed My turtleneck flesh was.
I hurriedly ended the marathonian call, something that was a lot easier said than done, as she denied My attempts to flee from her psychological clutch.
Let this be a lesson to you who are weak of will: there are those among us who feed from our vices.
Thus spoke, The DragnMastr.
"Who am I?", you ask The Oracle of Sui Ipsius Scientia.
A crooked smile negotiates their austere face, as they respond with the following:
"Who you are is who you have been. And who you have been is who you will become. And in your becoming, therein lie your departures–scattered throughout the catacombs of I-ness, like the dismembered remains of the past–vignettes of life.
"As the rattlesnake rattles, and the quarter moon moons, you too are palpable in the shifting expanse of consciousness."
At once, your eyes swell with disarray as you realize that the Oracle is Me, and I am You.
I watched from afar as she collected her simps with rapacious delight, a predatory delirium seething from her meat mausoleum.
I couldn't help but to chuckle, as they willingly handed over their Self-sovereignty in servile and meek fashion in pathetic hopes to gain her fickle attention, only to have her spit in their faces and castrate their impotent manhood once the brutal clarity of reality set in.
Cockroaches–every single one of them. Their lot in life would consist of a lifetime of groveling–face down, ass up, as the void of their Self-respect and worth are double-penetrated from behind.
In her gaze existed an unrelentingness that adhered itself on the cryptic walls of My antechamber.
Though the air was dense from the ashes swirling from the charnel house below, our level of understanding was impenetrable, crystalline almost in its purity.
We were what you would call phantasmagorias, son et lumière with our cruel sensuality. The promise of love was but a fata morgana that would impel our victims over the perilous cliffs of their obsession for us. How can you possess that which does not belong to you you swine?
Ha!
Their bottomless fates into the depths of their delirium would be our afternoon amusement. Forever and ever. Amen.
The pyre from Her self-indulgence cremated any pity we had preserved for her, as she continued on:
"O inoculator, I am weak.
Your virile insertions bring me to your feet.
The logical part of me is indignant by this experiment you've performed on me, but there is another side–a more instinct-driven side in which you've bored into me during one of your unrelenting sessions.
This side of me is thrilled by your creation, this side feels complete having been injected with the serum you've infused from me. Complete, but desiring more.
Was that the plan, inoculator? To get me addicted to your great syringe? If so, then go and rejoice because though I suffer the consequences of your actions, your plan has succeeded."
There was something of a grotesque understanding of what she had expressed. My demigoddess, My idol of devoted worship, was descending into the molten depths of self-annihilation, where the inoculator reigned supreme over her body, mind, spirit.
May she have mercy on her own soul.
A flash fiction collaboration with: @its.cherry.sister
From the towering heights of her balcony, The Flexilis Pupa looked down on Us, as Lasciva Libido articulated the following omen:
"A visitor stays within the temple. I say, O visiting soul, you may use The temple's resources. Sleep in its refuge, eat and drink, nourish yourself in whatever way you need. But your stay comes with a price: your spirit. Your spirit will reside within the temple forever, although you will be here only one more week. Just know this: you may return one day, and your spirit will still be here for you."
A tender feeling of melancholia cloaked the air. My breathing became belabored, as the denseness of the situation infiltrated My lungs.
There would be retribution to pay, and the definiteness of Death's stroke was upon her inoculator's horizon–I would make sure of it.
A flash fiction collaboration with: @its.cherry.sister
You see, Lasciva Libido was more than a mere high priestess, her feminine warmth emanated throughout My bone marrow, and stoked the biting flames of My essentia. You could say that she was the demigoddess dwelling at the tabernacle of My lechery.
At once, she opened her lips and spoke thus:
"O Impeccable One!
The nooks of my body drip with ripeness.
The foliage flowing from my head is tangled.
My heart is pregnant with mirth.
My loins overflow with the elixir of life.
My soul swells with warmth as the coat of ice which had encased it after so many days has thawed and washed away.
Yet, I beg for release.
My womb is host to a parasite that must be shed.
It tires me.
It consumes all I consume.
I am weary and hungry at all times.
I eat and am sick thereafter.
My DragnMastr!
I implore You!
Help flush this parasite from me!"
A flash fiction collaboration with: @its.cherry.sister
