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.




Provocations of the Phantasmagorias

In Her gaze existed an unrelentingness that adhered itself on the cryptic walls of My antechamber.

Though the air was dense from the ashes swirling from the charnel house below, Our level of understanding was impenetrable, crystalline almost in its purity.

We were what you would call phantasmagorias, son et lumière with Our cruel sensuality. The promise of Love was but a Fata Morgana that would impel Our victims over the perilous cliffs of their obsession for Us. How can you possess that which does not belong to you you swine?


Their bottomless fates into the depths of their delirium would be Our afternoon amusement. Forever and ever. Amen.


An Edict of Self-Sovereignty

When we let go of our crippling desire to be understood by the herd, and decree Self-Sovereignty, we begin to ascend toward the liberating heights of Self-mastery.

Keep drinking from that golden chalice in the meantime, and never apologize for any spilt ambrosia from your sweetened lips–the gods will exalt you.


I Am

I am The Impeccable One–a divine and sovereign being of limitless creative potential.

I am The Dragon Master–DragnMastr13–and I am mastering the roaring lion within, having slain The Great Dragon clad in gold scales of "Thou Shalt".

I have walked alongside The Grim Reaper, looked over the eternal cliffs of dreamless sleep, and hardened Myself against the vertigo of looming death.

The outcome?

A metamorphosis of mind–I am a mountain.

Nothing can move me.

Nothing can shake me.

Nothing can diminish me.

And yet, I have been moved. I have been shaken. I have been diminished.

But I am a blackhole–swallowing the fears, doubts, and insecurities that cross my event horizon–infinitely in a state of expansion.


The Cruel Sensuality of the Puella Caesaries

It was the late afternoon, and I was sitting at the base of My favorite tree, admiring the lush tapestry of interwoven wolf lichen that adorned its aristocratic exterior.

I enjoyed closing My eyes and feeling the velvet-green, fungal textile in-between My fingers–it possessed the lifeblood of the immemorial, with a simplicity of anatomy that was designed to endure epoch upon epoch.

When I opened My eyes she was reclining before Me, inviting My essentia into her ribcage, tempting Me to grasp at her heart. Our gazes interlocked, and I felt a cruel sensuality whisper into My right ear–My Otitis Externa was gone, and so were My inhibitions.



A Residuum of Otitis Externa

I laid there, with My head to the side, as he suctioned the moisture out of the offending ear. He was using a foreign instrument, and a knowledgable hand.

There were times when he simply needed to prod areas inside that suffered from tenderness, and when he did so I would grimace with an innocuous fear.

During the benign procedure, I couldn't help but to wonder if she cared about My moist ear as much as the people in those rooms whose purpose in life it was to care about moist ears.

Because if your lover doesn't care about the moisture in your ear, then in due time they will cease to care for the rest of you.



Little girl–chasing popularity, squirming for approval. I see right through you.

Your insecurities are blatant–glaring even. Who are you trying to impress? Your followers? Followers?! Do you really think they give a FUCK about you?


What they came to see is a free show as they churn their meat, scrolling through an endless flesh feed in their available hand.

Exposed vanity–a consequence of her anxiety at being alone with no reassurances, no feedback, no likes, no chatter.


She makes social media her life's work, setting her foundation on shifting sands. But vanity rusts artlessly in an air of mediocrity.



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.




When you knew Me, I was but a cowering, hibernating plant–abounding splendors lying dormant within the greyness of My obscurity.

And your mistake was in assuming that the sun would never reach Me.

But I'm here to tell you that, I'm blooming Bitch.


The Malknowing of The Flexilis Pupa


So you think you know Her?


You vile and ignorant cockroach!

You insignificant sycophant excrement!

Foul and debased is you petty existence!

For She is The Flexilis Pupa, and Her essence cannot be reduced and categorized by your paltry understanding.

She is beyond definition; She is a spectrum of Self–sparkling identities that effervesce and tickle the backside of your undeserving tonsils, as you drink from your dog bowl on the floor–Her spiked heel atop your menial, misshapen skull.



A Lost Art

Through the burrows of subterranean consciousness, the bellowing surges forward, headfirst, in search of light, in search of an open amphitheater to project it's primal cry–an ancient lost art among the modern-day herd.



In the clammy depths of water, you will approach an understanding of the profound essence of death, and what it would be like to demise from this terrestrial existence, one immersed in the habit of breath.

Breathe deep.

Breathe now.

For your inspirations will someday expire. 


Specters of Reality

Solar flares bayoneting the sleep of zephyr spheres, beyond the bounds of inept de-virgining teens as they thrust and heave in the shadows of a forest over yonder.

Malpenetrations–all fair within the fabric of time and space, although, both are specters of reality–hallucinations of the common man.


It Is True

It is true–I am a scavenger. However, I search not for food, but for beauty. And there is a certain nobility to my pursuits. 

My detractors bite with stolen teeth, but I come to bring smiles. 


Behold, the Lord GOD helps Me; Who is he who condemns Me? Behold, they will all wear out like a garment; The moth will eat them.

Isaiah 50:9


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.


Ball Gag of Burning Desire

It has been said by the weak of spirit to:

"Be gentle with yourself." "Forgive yourself." "Love yourself." That if you can do these things consistently every day for the rest of your life everything will be peachy.

But I say this:

"Have DISGUST for yourself." For only then will you have the nerve and audacity to be a better version of you. Because the lizard brain does NOT want change. It craves safety.

But the ironic thing about life, is that choosing to stay in your safe little comfort zone is perhaps the most dangerous place you can be.

Staying still leads to stagnation, and stagnant waters are brimming with disease.

Disease of mind.

Disease of body.

Disease of spirit.

Disease that leads to accelerated death.

The lizard brain will lead you to drink from this virulent pond because it is the enemy of achievement, and it would rather have you sick from comfort, than healthy with aspiration.

You cannot eradicate its voice, but you can learn how to muffle it with a ball gag of burning desire.

Thus spoke, The Dragon Master.