Beyond the White Wall of Dread (Part 2)

At once, a transmutation of focus took custody of My blurred vision. I found Myself vis-à-vis another mysterious entity. She was sitting casually, legs crossed, gaze transfixed on Me.

The funereal fears that possessed My chest cavity were gone, but I still felt an apprehensive grip on the rest of My body.

"Do not be afraid, I am your guardian angel. I have come to give you strength."

The message was communicated telepathically, without a linear structure, but with an undulating force and energy that reverberated through My lifeblood, with crystalline clarity.

Her words were reassuring and warm, unlike the words from My previous encounter.

She led Me to a bed of bougainvilleas, where I could rest My depleted spirit. I closed My bloated eyes, and I could feel the grotesque weight loosening its clutch around My chest as She tucked Me in.

The shallow breaths dissolved and were replaced by the vitality and sustenance of divine symbiosis.

I was asleep, finally.

Beyond the White Wall of Dread (Part 1)

I stared at the white wall in front of Me, from My confined situation. After My eyes had been out of focus for a persuasive length of time, I meandered across the avenues of perception.

An imperceptible span of shallow breathing later, I found Myself off the beaten track surrounded by leering trees and clammy silence.

There was the scent of moss, mold, and mortality in the breeze.

Entities that gave the impression of nymphets pranced carelessly in My blindspots. Or maybe they were man-eating chimeras–I couldn't be certain, and I was too weary to look in their direction for fear of testicular impalement.

A beautiful woman was there, and She seemed to be contemplating something in a severe, yet nonchalant manner.

Relieved that I had discovered another human, I approached Her and asked what She was thinking about.

Without missing a beat She turned to Me and responded, "I am no mortal. I am Death. And I was thinking about you."

Excavated Laughter

She talked of crystals, and understood them. I took it in and heard the earth.

A mine I followed, impossible to crawl through. A geode that shatters with her youth.

I examined the glimmer, upon the surface. Each cold crystal had a blackened glow.

My love was there, for the taking. Now it's been given back to her.

But anger can fade if you cast it away. Dig a hole, bury it, and welcome back laughter.

A sparkling gem abandoned down in the depths. My love's been given back to her.

Tagged:

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.

My Menses Maiden

I'll tell you where she buried Roberto's body next time. At the moment, I'd rather get into a curious habit she had:

She enjoyed coating her bed linen with her menstrual discharge. Everything in her room was unassuming, except for the blood-imbued bedding.

If you looked closely, you could make out the age of the blood stains by their hue of burnt burgundy–the older ones were darker in shade than the newly moistened ones.

To tell you the truth, the sight of the bloodied bedspreads didn't bother me, or even their offensive odor. Nay, what perturbed me was her overbearing insistence that I suckle on the bedsheets during our weekly bioenergetic catharsis meetings.

I don't care for the taste of iron, selenium has always been my favorite tasting chemical element. However, I would go along with her relentless pleas because I knew she meant well–she knew my platelet levels were low from the chemotherapy I was doing, and she wanted to ensure that I wasn't anemic.

She was kind in heart, and generous too. 

The Girl With the Nest-Neck

I rarely left the serenity of My shadow lair, but on those unavoidable days when I needed to venture into the local bazaar, I would see her–the nest-necked girl. She could be seen amidst the hustle and bustle in her usual conspicuous corner holding a sign that read: "Please Help. Need Money for Eggs."

I would look out of the corner of My eye, and witness the foot traffic overlook her destitution, never stopping to lend a helping hand.

I admired her courage and grit. Rain or shine there she was, like a bird-shit-on statue that people disregarded in their daily lives–eggless, but never beaten.

And then one day she wasn't there.

And then the next day she wasn't there.

And the next.

I haven't seen the nest-necked girl in over 3 years, but I still expect to see her there at her corner every time I set foot in the bazaar, enshrouded with an indignant composure that only people who've suffered the horrors of life possess.

Somnolent Edifications at the Mausoleum

It's funny how that familiar melancholic feeling haunts Me during the somnolent hours of the night–when everyone sleeps, my thoughts are under persecution.

Our happy times now rest in a mausoleum of memory.

I close my eyes and wander the spinal shadows in the corridors of what-could-have-beens, but return before immersing Myself completely in the darkness of reality.

It would've been nice to have someone close to me during these grinding times, but Lady Fortune is edifying me to be a more self-reliant and resilient Übermensch. And I'll come away from it all with a shatterproof spirit.

Thus felt, The DragnMastr.

An ejaculatory personal inferno at the 2nd Circle of Hell JcPenny's

In the second circle of Hell, there exists a godforsaken mall across the street from the ice cream parlor I had recounted before.

Wheezing inside the intestines of the desolation, only two establishments are still in business: JC Penny's, and the Sizzler's in the food court.

If you find yourself at the JC Penny's, beware of the young empusa that works in the fitting room, her treacheries have been witnessed first hand by your Dragon Master from afar.

As you undress, she will enter the fitting room and violate your genitals with her four hands, working in an efficient and malevolent manner.

Her technique will elicit a toxic ejaculatory personal inferno, caustic seminal fluids of which will sentence your urethra to death as it vomits from the tip of your corroding, melting dick.

Algo Que Pica

I petitioned her for a depraved taste of El Salvador, and my supplications were heeded on a Rabbit Rabbit August afternoon.

A little package arrived in the mail, and I opened it.

There were two, tiny, carefully-crafted tropical fruit sculptures (double entendres that piqued one's lechery). And when you lifted the lids there were sweaty little people fornicating with insatiable thirst and hunger for eachothers' juices and flesh, respectively.

When asked for something a bit more risqué, the wrinkly little Salvadoran shopkeeper replied, "¿Algo que pica?" She reached for the shelf behind the counter, set them down, and pointed with her mouth.

My accomplice bought them at once, wrapped them up in brown paper, and shipped them 3,000 miles away to their new Dragon Master.

I showed my Salvadoran abuela, and she approved.

Now, when I sit down at my desk to write or edit photographs, I like to lift the sexy fruit lids and admire my sweaty little fornicating people before summoning The Muse.

The Chicken Liver Virtuoso

Every Thursday afternoon she would arrive at our quiet little neighborhood square. She'd sit on one side of the weathered, beef-jerky-bench under the gazebo, alongside her brown-paper-bag-companion, where she carried her midday indulgence.

As she listened to music on her headphones, swaying her head in lackadaisical figure-eights, she'd snack on fried chicken livers in an elegant and dexterous way that made one believe they were witnessing a kind of performance art.

I was ever her only audience–no one came, no one saw–except Me.

I dislike fried chicken livers, but I continue to be enchanted by her eating of them.