The Recurring Disenchantments of the Virtual Anomalies

During my time there, I witnessed the virtual anomalies that would squat among the thickets of the bush, binding themselves to the phantom appendages of deficient passersby.

The hosts were usually of a vacuous effusion, leaving the vectors unfulfilled and disillusioned under the mirage of love's embrace.

All the while I watched, from the shade, in quiet ambivalence.

Some creatures never learn.


A Holy Promise Written In the Ink of Her Womb

Vis-à-vis They stood, immersed in the secrecy of the voyeuristic night's embrace–The Dragon Master and the governess of His heart–the one they called Tessamorous Libidinosa.

At last the tension was released as She opened the gates of the city and ushered the silence out as She spoke thus:

"A Holy Promise I have written in the Ink of My womb upon a parchment of Kotex. A Holy Promise that, if broken, reeks of consequence as pungent as the Vampyre's feast I have thus shed."

"DO NOT break this Promise", she admonished.

The Dragon Master retorted:

"Verily, I say unto You, I have tasted the sweetness of Your cherry delights, and I suckle upon Your seed. And what of Your slender stem you ask? HA. My tongue will meticulously explore the path of its line and shape, touring and twirling its possibilities–twisted geometries that will yield enchantments for Our insatiable appetites."

She smiled with wanton pleasure, as He continued His verbal provocations:

"Your cunt is my spermal mausoleum. May I rest in peace in Your womb tomb. All HAIL Tessamorous Libidinosa!!"


A flash fiction collaboration with Empress: @Its.Cherry.Sister


The Consummate Lover

She sat on Her throne abreast of My memory, not as My aristocratic subordinate, but as My vital accomplice.

Romance, sensuality, tenderness were of no significance to Us, for We were assassins of the meek and mild.

Our daggers lay concealed, as We walked alongside the docile and domesticated with murderous intent.

We found satisfaction in eradication.

Eradication of surplus meat.

Eradication of rotting ideas.

Every meeting, Our love was consummated in the blood of others, and it brought crooked, cruel smiles to Our feral faces.


Phantasmagorias of a Cerasus Empress

As I approached the city's gates on horseback, I could see the antlered heads of decapitated gazelles blooming in the hillsides. Thickets of anonymous, outstretched arms distended from the soil, creating the occasional embolus on My path. They reached for the multi-colored mysteries on Her body–mysteries that were known only to the hedonism of the night, and My tongue.



Susurrations of the Sacramentum

The Sacramentum was a mute, but it pronounced My destiny with the utmost susurration.

It's pulse oxygenated my lifeblood, and I was emboldened by the promise of incandescence. Not even the mossy shills in the dampness of the trees could deviate Me from My true north.


Terra Incognita

The herd can have their green pastures–I prefer to graze in the burrowed, dark vaults within.

The landscapes I was called to explore were the psychological–the terra incognita of the mind, of which, horizons stretch the imagination at the crossroads of infinity. 


Conduit to the Soul

I arrived at a fork in the road, and paused while I contemplated My course of direction. In that flickering moment, My consciousness became the conduit to My soul.
I was present of mind, present of spirit, and I awakened to a latent dimension of attention and focus–artillery that detonated and thundered across the cryptic terrain of My cognition.
I focused My attention upon the opaqueness of My thoughts, marched upon the gates of self-overcoming, and besieged the fortified citadel of My mind. 


Traversing the Labyrinth of My Psyche's Embrace

As I walked, I could feel the sticky residue of Its vagueness adhere Itself to the embryonic sprouts of hair that were germinating atop my exposed head.

The nymphets that frolicked in the cloak of Its azure buttermilk mist looked on in awe as I ignored their fleshed enticements–I was a new metaphysical being that traversed the labyrinth of My psyche's embrace, with purpose.


Walking Through the Miasma of The Ancient Smaze

The Ancient Smaze that had been the miasma of so many in Our realm, enshrouded everything in Its dominion. No ethereal being in Its path was spared Its muddle. However, I was from the 33rd dimension, so I had cultivated survival techniques to walk deliberately, through the dread and gloom of Its obscurity.

At times, I would stop and feel for the outstretched tentacles of nearby dead trees to reorient my physical and spiritual bearing. A cluster of timbered sherpa corpses helped me along the path toward my next destination, and I never wavered in deliberateness of step.


A Grim Realization of a Psychological Confinement

There I was, freshly released into the wildwoods of My new life, and all I could do was sit meekly next to that sadistic cage that had deprived My vigor for all those months. I was like some domesticated tiger that had lost its pounce.

I looked in all directions from My docile position, and I spotted her off into the distance, but she was no longer looking in My direction. Her penetrating gaze was engrossed on her new prey, and she was stalking quietly, patiently, with sinister intentions.

I inhaled the crisp air, feeling the buoyancy of fresh breath in My chest–not the stale kind that had cemented my lungs for so long. Although I was free to go, I still found Myself psychologically confined to My diagnoses.

As I sat there, cursing My will under the ambivalence of night, I could hear rustling noises in the bushes–it was feeding time for her, and someone was getting theirs. 



As I type this, my thoughts are scrambled, and my typing fingers are confused and unsure what they're doing, but that's ok, because I'm alive, and for the foreseeable future, I will continue to be...hopefully.

So, I had a very important medical appointment today–my oncologist informed me that my cancer's now in remission, and that's great news, but as is most things in life, it's a little more complicated than that.

The thing is, I still have a residual mass (tumor) in my chest cavity, but it's considerably smaller than it was when I first started chemotherapy (it's no longer harassing my lungs and heart), and based from my PET scan results, it's inactive (dead).

My oncologist hopes that it'll continue to reduce in size over the next few months as the chemo drugs continue to work their magic. She'll be closely monitoring me for the next 2 years, up until year 5, where the likelihood of relapse is said to be very low.

So to recap, my cancer is theoretically dead, but it can always come back without warning (especially the aggressive kind I have), so I'm not necessarily in the clear. BUT, I now have a lot more peace of mind, and can start to breath a little easier.

I know this is such a cliche, but I really DO feel like I have a new lease on life. I feel tremendously grateful to be alive, and I'm going to start attacking life with so much more vigor and passion. I should be dead, but I'm not, and that's such a sobering feeling.

For all of you who've reached out to me in the past few months and expressed your well wishes, I thank you fully from the bottom of my heart. I've been humbled from this entire experience, and just want to marinate in the simple joys that life has to offer.

If you're in the LA area, and want to have a beer with me to celebrate sometime, DM me. Let's celebrate being alive together, one pint at a time. ¡Salud!


Walking Toward the Rim of Numbed Despair

Closer and closer I walked, closer I walked on the trail toward the rim of my numbed despair. Her gaze was still transfixed on Me, and Mine on hers.

I was approaching the boundaries of those familiar feelings that had desiccated months ago–back when I could still feel the moisture of my fresh diagnoses on my cheeks.

But I was devoid of fear because I had already died a hundred times in the depths of my idleness–envisioning how My ashes would sublimely scatter in the cool ocean breeze of the Pacific, and the looks of grief on all the passengers on that sunlit deck–on afternoons when I lied in bed with closed eyes, aching knees, and swollen hope.


A Beelzebubian Breeding Before The Great Unknown

Again I stared into the expanse of my impalpable future, and again she returned my gaze, looking down at Me–into my chest cavity, which housed a Beelzebubian overgrowth.

The black mass nested itself in-between my lungs, prodding my heart with its breeding possession, and it reminded me each passing day that My sojourn in this dimension was limited, and that I would soon return to hitchhiking the highways of The Great Unknown, alone.


Purgatory's Pet

I am confined in Purgatory's cage, pacing back and forth, occasionally rattling a bar or two (just because I can). And as I stare off into the expanse of my impalpable future I see Her sitting sideways perpendicular to Me, with parallel tits, chin up, and gaze transfixed down on My thorax.

In two days I will find out if I live or die.

In the meantime, I will continue to rattle my bars in petty defiance. 


Scarlet's Rapture

And in the last days, art was one of the first superfluous luxuries to go, or rather, art for commerce–afterall, there were those who made an art of dying in the way they did–flailing their lopsided limbs through the air and shrieking in decibels that pierced unnerved ears below.

The gratuitous sky being who carried out the rapture was a bored conductor, and the mortals here on earth were it's momentary orchestral diversion.

From my lair, I watched with amusement as people prayed superstitious baloney and crossed themselves with vigor. Soon they would come to know the absurd and grotesque nature of their true origins.


The Exaltation of Kristxeidwu

Over the western ridge, beyond the hinterlands of the Zoriahex, exists a particular wildwood believed to imbue an early-morning Delphic fog, containing within it the decapitated figure of Kristxeidwu, an enigmatic nymphet fabled to possess areoli of ambrosia...the likes of which I have savored with My sublime tongue, and exalted with My depravity incarnate.


Vestiges of The Chispilim

The Chispilim was a spectral creature that resided in the shadow branches of my imagination.

On occasion, it would scurry across synaptic crevices and burrow itself in subterranean consciousness.

As time wore on, I became accustomed to hearing its gnarls and gnashing, throaty hostility that murmured against the wild expanse of my mind.


The Empathic Tongue of Tessamorous Libidinosa (Part 1)

I suppose I'll update you all with the reason why your Dragon Master has been absent the last few days, but beware, the following recounting of events requires an emboldened spirit.

On the christening night in question, I was under the groggy belief that it was all a dream–nothing could be further from the atoning truth.

Half-asleep, and weighed down by my own lethargy, I somewhat awakened to the molestation of what felt like a female tongue glossing over my slumbering sack of bones.

Her empathic tongue initiated its route on the crown of my indifferent head, and proceeded to glide down and figure-eight my innocent orbitals. I felt the moisture from her stroke remain on my brow ridge and underside of my eye lids, and it remained there as I recoiled in sleep.

When I awakened in the morning, I was stricken with horror to find all the hair on my head absent–ALL of it.

I looked like a befuddled, pink-hued salamander with morning wood.

(To be continued...)


The Inevitability of Forced Demonic Urination

You are born alone, and you die alone.

Somewhere in-between, you are visited by the occasional demon, and the mark of your greatness will be how you respond to their prickly harassments.

The fact remains, they will pry your mouth open and piss in it. Whether you believe in the metaphorical or literal sense of the word does not matter, your mouth will be a urinal.

So what's it going to be? How will you respond?

Well, if you are a decent human being you will accept the fact that your bloodstream will be soiled by the misery of their malevolence, and find a way to triumph over your unavoidable fate.

We have a liver for a reason, so use it.


The Boy Who Breathed Fear Into His Lungs

The cruelty of summer had vacated the abiding night's temperament, and he was ready to finally enjoy the healthy air.

It had been quite some time since he last breathed with ease–his chest expanded with satisfaction, without the normal crackle that had plagued him during the heatwaves. That is, until a sinister breeze perverted his lungs with a hellborn gossamer.

Strings of spiderweb draped themselves upon his bronchi, and moments later, the hatchlings bursted open.

Baby spiders instinctively began to spin their web on the branches of his alveoli with industrious velocity, and his wheezes suddenly bore into the tranquility of the night.

He was afraid of spiders, and now his breaths were a breeding ground for his fears.