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.

A Twilight Recommendation From the Sage in the Bark

I made it to Sopherocles by dusk, and found the sage in the bark awaiting My arrival.

I wanted to seek her advice on how to become a killing tree after I died. Preferably, I would specialize in unsuspected vengeance.

Within My foliage would be an armory laden with timbered bayonets–camouflaged and ready to gash the eye sockets of defilers of dreams and butchers of innocence–human tumors of which I have no remorse surgically incising from the face of this density.

She looked at Me with her infinite gaze, and whispered into My left ear, "Maybe you should be a dandelion instead."

Note to Self

Social media is optimized to extract nervous energy from you, not productive output.

Likes and follows are vanity metrics myopic people use to guage their inflated sense of relevance and importance. The only number that will prevail over time are the dedicated hours you've poured into your craft, with love.

In a world that fetishizes "more", cultivate a minimalistic mindset that discards the extraneous–all the things that distract your attention and focus from delving deep, because a life of depth is a self-actualized one.

 Withdraw from the mindless buzz, and continue to refine your inner world in solitude.

Your legacy will be remembered by all the meaningful work you've left behind that nourish and enrich the soul, so learn to say "no" to all the things that, in the end, don't matter.

Cerasus Mortem for the Children

It had been weeks since I had left My shadow lair, so I accepted Mama San's invitation.

As we ate our pork belly underneath the coolness and blush of My favorite Sakura, a domestic species of killing tree known among the botanic forensics community as Cerasus Mortem, I noticed a murky figure a few feet away.

Apparently, the local neighborhood children had erected a life-sized mud man, whom they incorporated into their afternoon rabble-rousing. After wiping the grease from My pencil mustache, I stood up and approached it to admire the peculiar resemblance it shared with My distant uncle Santos.

Nearing its presence, a funereal realization entombed itself in My throat. The unmistakeable stink of charred flesh was everywhere, and its ashen remains served as a cremated mud putty for the children.

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 Irrevocable Rapture of a Pious, Yet Curious Virginess

Unabashedly, over the spell of a gaping week, her initial fascination had transmuted into chronic and ineradicable obsession.

Ensconced with a feigned innocence, and in hostile opposition to her moral upbringing, she digitally revealed herself to Me, exposing abounding carnal pleasures that I looked to ravage and defile with predatory intent. It was only a matter of time now before I would be navigating her smooth, caramel fleshscape with My wanderlust tongue.

The destination? A pink oasis that promised to satisfy, almost as much as the satiating flavor of virginal conquest–a sweet and selfish aftertaste that indwells the palate of My carnivorous raptures.

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. 

The Shifting of Sui Ipsius Scientia

"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.

Cognizance by Osmosis

In the wake of dreamless sleep, you will cease to be estranged from yourself, and become reacquainted with your eternal past.

The sound of larval beetles chewing through stubborn tendon jerky becomes a distant echo.

You will transcend terrestrial restraints and concerns, and permeate space time into the next dimension, the next horizon of consciousness.

It is so.

Thus spoke, The DragnMastr.

An Admonition of a Bushwhacking

"My pussy bites!" she proclaimed.

"And so let it bite," I replied.

"I will bushwhack your aggressions, simultaneously as I clip My toenails cloaked in shadow. Do you dare seek retribution against Me? If so, bring reinforcements, for I am armed with obscene RAGE and unreasonable VIOLENCE. As you set afoot My lair, and the mournful scent of frangipani strokes your nostril cilia, it becomes apparent your phantom pussy has bitten off more than it can chew. It is so. Do you find My admonition incredulous? Go ask the previous girl. Her menstrual blood still saturates My bedsheets."

Thus spoke, The DragnMastr.