L.
Little Man
She owned a little man.
Not a little person little man, (although, he was little in physical stature) but one of little status and worth.
Her emasculating affections didn't seem to deprive him of his dignity though–he actually quite cherished her attention, and she cherished her little SIMP in return.
His little penile endowment was relished by her all-consuming cunt, and she endowed him with condomless sex, a justification of her intrauterine devices.
They were an odd couple, to say the least. However, they knew their roles in the pecking order, and perhaps this awareness is what made their romance most gratifying.
Expansions of a Suppressed Lung
There will be sepulchral spasms in life that will deprive you of breath–do not surrender, fight!
Endow yourself the time and space to reflect, and reincarnate!
Do not allow the apnea in these interstices strangle your lifeblood. Breathe!
Expand your lungs.
Expand your nerve.
Expand your potency.
You will inspire power, and you will use this power to force your fears into gaunt submission.
THAT
And when confronted to explain to them the meaning of the thing, The DragnMastr spoke thus:
"Do not concern yourselves with WHAT the meaning is of the thing, what matters is THAT it has meaning!"
The small crowd stewed uncomfortably in their stupefaction as He walked away from them in disdain.
Lesson: Personal meaning is most always understood in retrospect, and rarely in the present moment. Immerse yourself instead, with what makes you feel alive, while meaning ferments underfoot–you will know such things by their sticky residue.
Treasure Troves of Self Discovery
It has been reasoned that the search for truth will lead you to beauty and understanding, but I say this: seek not truth and beauty, but absurdity and dissonance. For in its cacophony, you will cultivate attention–this is what is needed to see.
And through the sweat of salt you will excavate perception, action, and will. Buried treasures that will serve to decipher Self–revealing limitless possibilities, the depths of which will set you free.
Thus spoke, The DragnMastr.
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.
Lasciva Libido (3/3)
Closed are the pink fleshed gates to her womb
Locked are its vigor
She enchants who enchants
This sea witch enchants all who encroach
Ye mortals
She is not of the land
She is of the sea
She enchants like a turquoise siren
She spirals toward her seabed
She spirals toward her seabed
Against the current
Against the current
Lasciva Libido (2/3)
Closed are the pink fleshed gates to her womb
Locked are its vigor
Men perish
Their names are null
Seize thou this sea witch against her will
Take this sea witch to the sea
That she may not die on land
Among men
Lasciva Libido (1/3)
Closed are the pink fleshed gates to her womb
Locked are its vigor
The salt in the night wind cremates the eye
The waves detonate
The sand shatters
The whipping boys whimper
Their fears are ignited
When they see this sea witch
Reigning over her dominion
Brilliant
Do not place them on a holy pedestal most high.
You do not own them.
You share a memory together.
That is all.
That is enough.
Focus your attention, rather, inwardly.
Fertilize and plow the soil of your soul with knowledge, experience, dedication to craft. In 10 years they will be a flickering memory, but your mastery will have become brilliant.
People will worship your greatness, with all of its sacrifices, and you will smile among the gods, alone, in great company.
The Verdict
When you see Me in the incandescence of the marketplace, amongst the buzzing flies and loudmouth charlatans, a simple acknowledging nod is suffice. Do not attempt to stop Me, for I will stride past you–defiantly.
You will know Me by the black grime under My fingernails, brooding brown eyes, and disconnected disposition.
I do not care about your petty praises, save them for the self-important–the ones who count their counterfeit likes and fabricated followings on social media.
Do they not understand that those numbers are irrelevant and subject to the whims of their pseudo admirers, who care more about a follow-back than a genuine relationship?
Do they not understand that their time on earth is limited, and there is work to be done, legacy to be cultivated, self-mastery to be reaped?
Do not burden yourselves with such pathetic sycophants, for their existence will be null and void by the discerning verdict of time.
Thus spoke, The DragnMastr.
Black Masterpiece
It's 3:37 am, and the spore swarms from the black mold are insidiously clutching onto my bronchioles, mindlessly feeding on the plump grapes in my air sacs with piggish gluttony. In their selfish apathy, they have succeeded in contaminating the oxygen in my bloodstream with their greasy little toxic secretions.
Respiratory distress, unusual rash formations, abnormal skin sensations, abdominal pain, bloating, diarrhea, chronic cough–and I haven't even brewed my morning coffee yet.
Every breath I take is a piecemeal necrosis–a symphonic masterpiece of mycotoxin discord.
I need medical attention, but my doctor is an incompetent, and I have shitty insurance. I will surely die, but I'm ready. The only thing that brings me sharp grief are my precious darkroom prints–what will happen to my well-preserved archives when I die? I hope whoever finds them conserves them for posterity.
I have to admit, I have a soft spot–in my FUCKING LUNGS. GET OUT OF MY RESPIRATORY AIRWAYS YOU TOXIC BLACK MOLD MOTHERFUCKERS!
The Benevolence of our DM13 Lord
Verily, I say unto you, that you are not alone. I am by your side.
And when you sleep, I watch over you.
And when you bathe, I watch over you.
And when you dress, I watch over you.
For it has been prophesied by the Oracle at Larapim, that I will lead the exodus of your existential dread off the treacherous cliffs of consciousness, into the crashing tides of oblivion.
You are surely not alone, for The DragnMastr's gaze is fixed upon you–lustfully–full of grace. It is so.