Paradox:
She had such soft tits to feel, yet such lacerating feelings to inflict.
Beware of the barbed woman–her wounds coagulate leisurely, with marked indifference.
Little Disturbances
Rid yourself from any nagging, tremulous tendencies. Cause a little disturbance. Let your titties loose in public. Get in a fight you can't win.
In 53 years, when you're on your deathbed, sucking on your oxygen mask at a steady flow, you'll giggle to yourself at intermittent streams of consciousness as you reflect on all the reactions you managed to evoke from horrified strangers.
Those "little disturbances" is our performance art.
Trimming the Fat
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Trimming the fat," I responded.
"What do you mean?" she interrogated.
I didn't feel the need to answer her nosy question, so I just sat there, My back to her.
"What do you mean?" she repeated.
Again, I didn't feel the need to answer her nosy question, so I just sat there, My back to her.
I could feel her stare molest the wax-glossed region behind My ears, and violate the serenity in My shadow lair.
She began to cry, obviously for attention, but the malice that dwelled within Me found great pleasure in denying her that satisfaction. A discreet, reactionary smile formed on My face, as I continued to trim the fat, undisturbed.
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.
HA!
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.
A Requiem for My Free Will
Whack by whack, I mucked through the indecency and brutality of that hellish underbrush with My machete, forever being prodded and persecuted by the bramble and its dominatrix temperament.
With a spiteful conviction I managed to penetrate My way into a sparse clearing, sweat-soaked, while curses of obscene damnation fermented within My larynx as I panted for oxygen.
Belaboring to catch My breath, I lifted My arms above My head to expand and assist My faltering lungs, as I did so, I caught a staggering glimpse of euphoria incarnate. It was none other than Fluxus Ignis–the florid-fire hoop dryad who spellbound and usurped My aphrodisia last Spring.
I must admit, any semblance of carnal memory is opaque, as I vaguely recall awakening the following Summer to a requiem for My free will. Her possession over Me was a performance art, and I was her marionette doll.
Time had softly revived Me from that funereal somnambulism that I had succumbed to, and I stood there a resurrected soul. Tachycardic, with an omen-flow of blood accumulating in a specific region, I picked up My machete and reconciled with the thorny thickets from whence I came, before she could pervade My senses yet again, and muddle all reason and Self-control beyond the point of no return.
The Rejuvenation of a Dangling Limb Within
She is a deprived little moth, lost in the night's nonchalance–spellbound from the flickering bursts and intensity of My soul's pyre.
She can't help it. She is propelled by instinct and desire.
The more I reveal, the closer she flutters. She craves My attention, she needs My illumination.
HA!
Trivial things really, what concerns Me now is My looming risk for myocardial inflammation.
I refuse to stroke flaccid relationships–it is too little, too late.
The neuropathy that numbed within has faded–a dangling limb, that will rejuvenate.
Evaporating Into the Carte Blanche of Self
And upon becoming, the gaze-bondage from the misjudgments of others is loosened–your emancipation was a mirage all along, your self-license is translucent.
You see, we voluntarily imprison our capacity to be, exponentially, to an intolerable degree.
The Self is not a substance, nor concrete–it precedes cause and effect, like the kinetic theory of heat.
So boil and evaporate your Self-constraint, so that your essence becomes nebulous, an early morning mist that is free to dissipate.
Imago Dei: Draco Dominum
Step into My shadow lair.
Bear witness to My sovereignty.
I sit at My throne atop Mount Peritia and rule. I command the light how to quality–how to quantum.
Something has been created out of nothing.
Your image and likeness has been photo-etched on silver halide crystal.
In latent form, you enter limbo of The Draco Dominum.
You, have become elemental.
You, have become preserved for all of posterity to marvel at.
You, have become.
A Prologue to the Eventual Extermination of an Unwelcomed Earworm
Her voice was an earworm burrowing under the recesses of reminiscence, penetrating through grey scar tissue of memory.
At inconvenient moments throughout the day, I could feel this parasite feeding upon the musty puddles in the pore spaces and fractures of My stale felicity. What was needed was an extermination–an excision was improbable.
I decided that My course of action would be a slow and deliberate deprivation of oxygen. Entombed in the solitude of My shadow lair, it was a mere matter of time before I would be resting in peace from its grubby pestilence.
A Blooming of Concupiscence
Nestled in the churns of its highlands, El Cipitio and Sollistimus Vita dandled, inhumed in the bowels of Chalatenango.
Carnal flashes lambasted the barrio below, and the mothers censored their teenaged daughters prying eyes–their virginal minds with a desire to know.
Pubescently slender bodies–stems of youth, their innocence withering like gospel truth.
A Memento Mori for My Living Corpse
The future is not female. Nor is it male.
The future is death, and you cannot escape it.
Underneath the gloom of the star-deprived night's sky, Ursa Major, Cassiopeia, and Cygnus are all but blotted out by metropolitan light-pulse.
The fragrance of jasmine incense still clinging to your bedroom walls in the morning, as rigor mortis greets the first daylight in mourning.
The black mass inhabiting your chest that had you immunosuppressed, tormented and compressed, until it induced cardiac arrest.
An unbalmed body without casket, buried six feet underground takes a decade to decompose–as the echos of weeping friends who never knew your middle name decrescendo, you become fleshmeal to insects and their shadows.
Death is unforgiving and non-discriminatory, so please, live each day with love, passion, and Memento Mori.
An Edict of Self-Sovereignty
When we let go of our crippling desire to be understood by the herd, and decree Self-Sovereignty, we begin to ascend toward the liberating heights of Self-mastery.
Keep drinking from that golden chalice in the meantime, and never apologize for any spilt ambrosia from your sweetened lips–the gods will exalt you.
The Cruel Sensuality of Hirsutus Puella
It was the late afternoon, and I was sitting at the base of My favorite tree, admiring the lush tapestry of interwoven wolf lichen that adorned its aristocratic exterior.
I enjoyed closing My eyes and feeling the velvet-green, fungal textile in-between My fingers–it possessed the lifeblood of the immemorial, with a simplicity of anatomy that was designed to endure epoch upon epoch.
When I opened My eyes she was reclining before Me, inviting My essentia into her ribcage, tempting Me to grasp at her heart. Our gazes interlocked, and I felt a cruel sensuality whisper into My right ear–My Otitis Externa was gone, and so were My inhibitions.