B&W Portraits

The Desolation of My Beautiful Almost

I stepped outside of My shadow lair, and sat underneath the inviting shade of an adjacent avocado tree to eat My afternoon breakfast. Perched atop a flimsy branch, surveying Me from above was the kitten I used to frolick with from before, except, she was no longer a kitten anymore.

The seasons had been rough to her, and she wore the marks of weathered reproach from her new master–Desolation.

Sensing that My absence had been her cat-'o-nine-tails, I threw a piece of fried plantain I was eating toward the base of the tree, in hopes that she would descend from her high-squat, and join Me.

But alas, she just sat there, unmoving, while the ants devoured My peace offering in earnest.

I longed to have her in My arms, and play, but some things are better cast away.


It's been an unacceptable amount of time since I've last seen you–obscene almost, in its length.

How I long to trace the slender contours of your feline body with My hard desire.

I've heard it said to love in such a way that the person you love feels free, but I refuse to adhere to such docile beliefs. My Dionysian Spirit chuckles disdainfully at harmony and balance–It feeds on frenzied obsession, and Kitten, you are Mine.

Take My hand, and allow yourself to free fall into the unchartered depths of your shadow depravity.


Missing Kitten

Last seen frolicking in My little lair.

She's a shy, svelte sexiness.

Has a gymnast's sinful talents.

Iridescent green eyes with bursting nebula irises that draw you in with urgency.

Soft, sweet, tanned skin with fading floral tattoos that trace the contours of her tight, toned body.

A soothing, sensual voice that incites the male (and sometimes female) imagination.

And a missing tooth in the back of her mouth that peekaboos when she smiles her immaculate, radiant smile.

If found, please let her know this:

It's time for another feeding. Carnal pleasures await–the likes of which are sure to satiate your wanderlust mouth.

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.

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.