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.


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 Dragon Master.


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 Ignis Upupam–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.


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 Dragon Master.


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 Dragon Master.


The Double-Penetration of a Groveling Simp

I watched from afar as She collected Her simps with rapacious delight, a predatory delirium seething from Her meat mausoleum.

I couldn't help but to chuckle, as they willingly handed over their Self-sovereignty in servile and meek fashion in pathetic hopes to gain Her fickle attention, only to have Her spit in their faces and castrate their impotent manhood once the brutal clarity of reality set in.

Cockroaches–every single one of them. Their lot in life would consist of a lifetime of groveling–face down, ass up, as the void of their Self-respect and worth are double-penetrated by Empusa violators.


Evaporating Into the Carte Blanche of Self

And upon becoming, the gaze-bondage from the misjudgments of others is loosened–your emancipation was a mirage all along, your self-license is translucent.

You see, we voluntarily imprison our capacity to be, exponentially, to an intolerable degree.

The Self is not a substance, nor concrete–it precedes cause and effect, like the kinetic theory of heat.

So boil and evaporate your Self-constraint, so that your essence becomes nebulous, an early morning mist that is free to dissipate.



Imago Dei: Draco Dominum

Step into My shadow lair.

Bear witness to My sovereignty.

I sit at My throne atop Mount Peritia and rule. I command the light how to quality–how to quantum.

Something has been created out of nothing.

Your image and likeness has been photo-etched on silver halide crystal.

In latent form, you enter limbo of The Draco Dominum.

You, have become elemental.

You, have become preserved for all of posterity to marvel at.

You, have become.


A Prologue to the Eventual Extermination of an Unwelcomed Earworm

Her voice was an earworm burrowing under the recesses of reminiscence, penetrating through grey scar tissue of memory.

At inconvenient moments throughout the day, I could feel this parasite feeding upon the musty puddles in the pore spaces and fractures of My stale felicity. What was needed was an extermination–an excision was improbable.

I decided that My course of action would be a slow and deliberate deprivation of oxygen. Entombed in the solitude of My shadow lair, it was a mere matter of time before I would be resting in peace from its grubby pestilence. 


A Sweat-Seething of Anatomies

The music gripped Us by the neck, inserted a grubby finger inside Our accepting mouths, and a willful coercion ensued. We danced amidst primal delirium.

Thereafter, Our sweat-seething anatomies entwined and serpentined, amongst drowned-out tachycardia and hedonism. Our flickering, tungsten-lit shadows delineated My lair's walls like the Paleolithic cave paintings of Lascaux. It was a frenetic mating ritual, suffused with the bodily fluids needed to pacify the nausea and trepidation of temporal existence. 

It was Our first encounter, but unfortunately for her, it would be the last. She was a feeble-minded ideologue engrossed with politics, and babbled too much about petty things that didn't really matter after you were dead, and after you had just come.



A Blooming of Concupiscence

Nestled in the churns of its highlands, El Cipitio and Sollistimus Vita dandled, inhumed in the bowels of Chalatenango.

Carnal flashes lambasted the barrio below, and the mothers censored their teenaged daughters prying eyes–their virginal minds with a desire to know.

Pubescently slender bodies–stems of youth, their innocence withering like gospel truth.




A Midnight of Nostalgic Meandering

Barely legal, but brimming with sin. Your body may be tender, but your heart has been hardened, from the men you've let in.

Daddy issues? Of course. But that's a given. Now you have many, and they have sugar aplenty. It's ok, you are forgiven.

Remember when I'd pick you up and we'd perv, laugh, and frolick together? You were My little bird, and you know what they say about birds of a feather.

My Little Darkling, My Teenage Succubus, My Twatanic, I look forward when we meet again, so you can lubricate My stiffness like a shop mechanic.

Til then Virtual Anomaly, and whatever you do, don't forget to write to Me.


A Memento Mori for My Living Corpse

The future is not female. Nor is it male.

The future is death, and you cannot escape it.

Underneath the gloom of the star-deprived night's sky, Ursa Major, Cassiopeia, and Cygnus are all but blotted out by metropolitan light-pulse.

The fragrance of jasmine incense still clinging to your bedroom walls in the morning, as rigor mortis greets the first daylight in mourning.

The black mass inhabiting your chest that had you immunosuppressed, tormented and compressed, until it induced cardiac arrest.

An unbalmed body without casket, buried six feet underground takes a decade to decompose–as the echos of weeping friends who never knew your middle name decrescendo, you become fleshmeal to insects and their shadows.

Death is unforgiving and non-discriminatory, so please, live each day with love, passion, and Memento Mori. 


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.