I used to have a boss. He was the leader of the Russian Mafia in Los Angeles. He used to say over and over again, “Don’t mistake my kindness for weakness.” He was soft spoken, he always smiled. He did drug deals with police officers in the back room and he was a killer. No one could stop him and they wouldn’t even try. He worked secretly, and when you were out, you were out, literally. It’s not good to get in over your head, take too much, take things for granted, use people for personal gain however subtle, feed off other’s energy, get too big for your britches, lose appreciation…you get the idea. I think I’ve said it all before. I’ve been writing this blog almost every day for a year and a half. Let me see you come up with material daily. Let me see ANYONE OUT THERE- even TOUCH me. Right. Impossible. I’m practically God, given my ability to flow with the words, say what you want. My awareness doesn’t waiver. My voices are gods and my fire is for people like you. People who need it or they wouldn’t be sitting in a little dark room critiquing me and trying to reduce me to the little lady whose lost and on fire, it’s sweet, I’m so forlorn and confused and that’s why I started writing this blog, looking for help. Seriously? Get over your self and so will I. You probably critique YouTube videos too and write your opinion all over the place meanwhile you hide, ball-less and creepy. Big talker.
I’m tired of so much but mostly two things. Being forced into being everyone’s “mommy” and also everyone’s “dick” that’s right and it’s a perverse visual for sure. Think about what it’s done to me. And everyone hides reading, interested enough to see if today’s “topic” is worthy of your time and greatness but not interested in having or showing any appreciation for my time, effort and the fact you’re getting free entertainment. Too bad you don’t get it at all, it’s way over your head. Both heads. Too bad it’s not my fault. I’m not trying to learn how to write, express myself. I’m not seeking prayers, guidance, sage advice.
I am simply creating poetic direction, you can do with it what you want, and you do. And it’s too bad how blind love can be. My love that is. I don’t use you. I don’t siphon off of you. I don’t project onto you. I don’t masturbate to your picture. I don’t write you stalker emails. And there are more than one, so don’t get all hot and bothered thinking it’s you. First of all, I’m nothing to write home about because I’m obscure, esoteric, un-useable. Worn out and over it. Not a good prop for any man in this world. I’ll rip your little head off because that’s what deadly spiders do. It’s so hard being hard and yet soft all the time, such as me. You want to “understand” the material, my words? Look beyond logic and feel out the pain. It’s a self regulating system. What you can and can’t see. That’s the mystery of the muse. Oh no, I haven’t gotten ahead of myself. I’m not lost looking for another daddy. I AM DADDY. If you want to be seen as a man, act like one. I know that concept escapes you, but if I can do it, so can you. I should take you hunting. Teach you how to fuck something hard like a good little girl. Stop being a dick, just to overcompensate for the fact you don’t have one. It’s the astral dick that matters most. The mystical heartthrob of body and soul. I’ve got it. I am it. I’m a turn on. You’re a turn off because you hide and say stupid shit that shows how deep you aren’t. Men and woman need to not be themselves and jump out of the role box for just a moment. I don’t have time for this because I’m not interested in monotony or monogamy for that matter. If you don’t fathom my words it’s because you’re an ape, that’s all. Why make it like I’m the one lost, when it’s you- whose the one who is shallow and impotent. I mean you can spell and such but beyond that, I don’t know, it’s weird. The whole Star Trek get up, the black outfits, the dream of a new gothic tattoo. Where does it end, I would like to meet a man with a dick larger than mine and it’s HARD. Astral light emanates from the eye of Shiva, I get the job done because of the gods, their words, my knowing, my insanity, my genius. Your feedback is like the stale seeds poor people feed pigeons and those little fluffy sick looking birds, tasteless, useless and not eaten.
What I’m saying IS always the same thing. You don’t contribute. You just have your priceless opinions. The joke is on you. You couldn’t be in the same room with me for five minutes. I can’t handle constantly “toning” it down, adapting to weakness, pushing hard looking for light in the flower. Listening to monkeys talking in tongues. It’s my tongue, not yours. That’s what this is. How deep do you look, maybe you should wash your sheets, it’s about time.
Don’t read it. It’s not like you’re paying me. It’s not like I need you for anything. Takers. Everyone is a taker. Taking space, food, energy, free rides,
time. It’s not cool but you’ll see soon enough. The giver is God. The taker is….
that’s right dude. And it’s a weak fuck at that. In the dark. My gun is loaded. You’ve got a water gun pointed at me- if you know what I mean boys and girls too…it’s an old game. You misunderstand me. How many people say they “love” me? OH ALOT. As they suck and take and hope to fuck…one day. Do I feel loved? No. Who cares. Do I feel used and invisible? Yes. Who cares. Are you real to me? No. Is that my fault. Yes and no. I see you as higher than you see yourself apparently. My ideals haunt me. And this glamour trip, my seduction is simply fly paper meant to trap so I can observe the thing that I am killing. So mistaking kindness for weakness and objectifying me is a naughty thing to do. You’re gonna get slammed hard for playing a game you can’t win. No appreciation, no insight, I play it down for you even, give you a head start and yet still, it’s about me putting out? Me and my fountain hard dick, astral Shiva. Yes, but you’re deaf as well and I’m crazy to oblige the mad house of ding dong donkey kong banana sucking tongueless monkeys. This hurts, it really does. I’m not a zoo keeper, I’m an exterminator. Cockroaches, infestation of penis. That’s what I do. I poison hard ons that get in the way. No, it’s not you. It’s about someone else. Don’t cry, if you even can. Don’t misunderstand my sage guidance. Don’t push a goddess, bitch, or whatever trip on me. I don’t care. I’m the dot and the end of your sentence. I’m the empty hose. I’m that which fucks the fuckers.
But I know people who are stupid can’t help it. It’s encoded in their apish-human DNA, that’s why I’m not mad and instead of saying idiot, I use a kinder code word like butterfly…but that’s my idealism once again. We are not real to each other, what a scary dream. Reaching through you into cyber space, into nothing but images of convenience based on unmet childhood needs and the fact that getting laid in person is a hard thing to do, right sweetheart?
God, have some faith. It’s a rabbit hole. A drug trip. Psychedelic euphoria on my lips. Ride it out, come for a visit. Send me a picture of yourself and a statement of your bank account.😂 Feed something besides a fantasy, feed me 🍄💀🤡. My words are to help you find your heart dear one✨🐍🔻 And when you do, maybe you’ll open it and give it a voice instead of seeing your life as a “sad show.” it’s not a show, it’s an experience of reality. Clearly a me 🦅too much for a you🐥
Real Me, the aftershock🎱