There is nothing more evil than self deception, more evil than thinking one is doing the right thing blind to the misery it inflicts on others. This is the mark of every tyrant, monster, and autocrat always unconsciously projecting their own evil onto others, i.e. the otherizing, giving drama to the inner and outer war of fear and shame that plays out with out relent in the racial political, and ****** drama of our lives.
There is nothing more evil than self deception, more evil than thinking one is doing the right thing blind to the misery it inflicts on others. This is the mark of every tyrant, monster, and autocrat always unconsciously projecting their own evil onto others, i.e. the otherizing, giving drama to the inner and outer war of fear and shame that plays out with out relent in the racial, political, and ****** drama of our lives, like disowned sexuality that manifest as
out of control impulses which may carve out unwanted events and destinies.
My poems are logs of surreal mental constructs rooted in a labyrinth of shadows, where I destroy and create others and myself for the pure pleasure of it. There is nothing more bizarre than a good mental **** if not a ****** one and you know you may need that, unless you talked yourself out of it a long time ago.
I told her It's your dark part I love the most! No, not the dark part you're ignorant of; not at all, but the one you may have an inkling of when the ***** falls in love with her closet monster that excites, frightens and ignites, wanting what you should not want.
The Satan she loves, the god of her dark heaven she wants to own and be owned by and drag out of the shadows for her own unspeakable special pleasures. Telling me how turned on she is;
She whispers …."If I could get you to **** me any way I wanted, I would start with you stalking me; waiting for the moment when I go for a jog, or out shopping on my bicycle all alone. Armed with a blow gun and a few tiny darts, it will be such a simple thing to follow me and put one in my back, scooping me into your van seconds later as I fall like dust."
He said I'll take you home to my cave and eat you like like summer melon on a shaking bed, red red red. She pulled him into her starving emptiness and said **** me slow placing his hands around her neck tenderly pleading and with dove like eyes whispering, "I'm so ready, please baby please"
La petite mort … The little death...
The connection between *** with death is ancient.
It is merely the projection of the ******* moment when one is lost in the ecstatic oblivion of release as it permeates oneself or the object of ones desire with its visual reflection, emotional content, and ghastly yet sometimes abjectly bizarre sensuality and finality.