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The
best I can describe it is it sounds like ripping almost, and the ripping
sound comes from the magazine I've been tightly gripping in my left hand. In
fact I've been gripping it so hard it starts to crush, making a crunching
sound, the magazine. When I get my orgasm--my right hand pumping my
ashamed penis, my left holding the magazine that's starting to condense
with sweat from the heat stemmed from the attraction (blond
hair, deep blue eyes, singing in People Magazine)
of the girl I tightly grasp, gasp and sweat for--I'm smashing the magazine
because the orgasm intakes the compressed hallucination of my expanding
strength and explosion and has been pushed down A Bump in the Night Fear is here, within me. When I was little it existed in an impersonation of mutated sophistication, merely my secret father. He's left, but the activity of ritualized truth burrows down the spiral of my dark repression, and apprehension. This suit represented as the guise of honesty in truth which continues to stain the sexualized lie of religion haunts what's left over of my body, my mind, my everything. Sometimes I can't think, and my father casts the imagination of deceitful believing up my shoulders. Darkness pulls me down to the depths of inhuman pain stacked upon more pain. The delightful measure of Satan. I hear a bump in the night, and it's the secret me stumbling, searching, looking without a hope for the delight of pain and the confronting of my father. It's the secret me triangulating the resources to shine light on a bump in the night... ...Without God... My name is not to be said. What I do seems to be proclaimed, proclaimed upon rooftops; spoken in ways that convert language to translation. What I've heard yells down mountains, echoing in ears that crack canyons. My heart too proclaims, behind the bars of ribs, that I pump, and in a way, breath life into a world desecrating. The language I speak hears only the sound of God proclaiming upon the rooftops that his children no longer exist; that without a breath, the air we condone, the lungs that sit, we pump existing life into us. Some things are too sacred to care about. We hear nothing but sound, and becoming overtly aware we pretend that our lie to ourselves is what the truth sees as our lie in life. Becoming what isn't proclaimed as a saying we, as a people united in a ceremony we teach but do not know sadly watch the disappearance of what never existed. Our language, becoming never, spears the united unity of godly emptiness. We speak, without God, in a uniformed spirit of decision, individuality, and what makes us what we are never was, never is, never will be. Blaming the organization commits the revolving persecution of a no God. We, as a prophet of separation in decision, as the people of a no God resist the temptation of agonizing defeat. We in ourselves repeat the mode of devoid emptiness without God I'm Scared Why, I don't know, but I'm here, now, and I'm scared of what I can't find in myself. Why, I'm here, I come, I go, I see and sometimes words never know. Sometimes words don't express. I've come, I've gone, I've seen, but do I know who I grow. But do know who I am and what I stand for? Have I ever seen me? Will I ever attract the approach of Love? Me, I've seen; I don't know why but proposing the conduction of--I don't know. Her I want to love her. I want her to love me. With clothes on, I want to hold her waist close to mine, standing up, and kiss. I want to kiss her neck with my lips, standing up. I don't want to think wrong! Standing up, I want my arms around her and her arms around me. Close, together, standing up I want her. Together, closeness, her arms around my body, she wants me? Together, her cheek brushes mine to remind of the divine. God. Laying on bed, closeness of heads, clothes on, touching. Eyes in, eyes out. God. Hips and stomach surfaced, feeling, touching, together, laying. Arms rapped around each other, eyes open, silence, yet communication. God. Holding at once ours, we become theirs. God............................................ "I'm sorry God, I'm sorry for how utterly dedicated I am to my perversity." I finish saying these words after I'm finished masturbating for two hours, hard, strait. My right arm severely disagrees with the action it's recently taken; and my orgasm was worth the pain my arm yells at me with. The girl I like will now be turned against me, unknowingly a participant not in my perversely untapped experience of immortal pleasure, but rather in the consequence of such an excessive, aggressively dominant act of choice, made by the futile, condemned, contradictory agency of free will. The thoughts that paint pictures blend the dangerous era of childhood with a forged plot of being an adult, and what I'm excepting as wrong, I also except as natural, innocent, and totally seminal. Before going to bed, after I've said "Oh God, now I can sleep" I feel a brief moment of incarceration; almost as if this moment was a feeling of momentum energized in a source that whispers guilt. Laying my head on the pillow--a pillow that ten minuets before I had used as a pretend vagina and a pretend body of a girl that was screaming "Oh my cunt! Oh god my cunt! Oh oh oh my cunt!" and had had an imaginary look of pleasure so wondrous, so convincing, so profound, so moved in the position of sexualized commitment I could actually feel the sacrifice within me--I think to myself, the look on my face with a hint of unbelievable terror, "Will the girl I like still like or ever grow to love me now that I've done this?" A consciousness ready for misinterpretation, a gaze fueled by the unaware emptiness of my only semi closed eyes, I dream the question, "Does God like me or will he ever grow to love me now that I've done this?" Untitled Springing to my mind is a flood of questions caused by the lyrics that breed emotions of a song I'm listening to, off a CD just bought at a store I walked out of. "Into the night we shine" the song sings and I ask myself, so sadly, "Do I shine to anybody, in anyway besides a way that's bad?" Then I tell myself that excluding God from my one question charts an irrelevant stance between the mapped direction of deserved participation I'm being lead to believe in, and that following this kindly devotes a strategy of (a devolved) failure among the evolved living. It's not the music I hear that keeps the questions coming, it's the music I feel. Questions pummeling down a deep-dark environmental pit, it's endlessly infinite length a scope of degraded emotional void that keeps my body moving, chanting significant ways that provide meaning. As I listen, feel the music that is the cause of too much emotion, the thought that's objectified into silent words, "Two billion people, at this exact moment, feel as downhearted, lost, confused, sad, tired, depressed and pressed as I" conveniently enters my mind. Now I wonder if I'm depressed. Thinking this one thought, this one only,
slides some emotion felt down the brain disposal, slippery because it's terribly
dirty, grinding up emotions, leaving enough to let me sleep and to simply live
with; and in a moment, sudden as it comes, my emotion falling to pieces, I fall
hard, feeling solid. Where I fall the pillows fold, the mattress indents and I
break. Laying down, limbs feeling independent of the body I'm purposely fitted
in to, the music talks and softly plays while falling asleep takes in it's
spirally, unprecedented yet familiar effect; and I don't hear the music that Further and further into an almost
unconscious mind of sleep, I stop feeling so fearful and start feeling targeted
for, I don't know what. "The One." That's what I heard in my dreams. I
woke up, it's the next day, and feeling horrible. Today I described how I fell
into sleep to a girl I think is attractive. Today I describe my slumber as a
pathway fallen into, as something willingly forced, yet gentle; but this doesn't
make the girl like me as I want her to Untitled To get where I was going I had to think; Think strenuously the same thought over and over again. My goal to get to where I was going required thirty-five minuets of my time, alone, and laying in the same place, soft and with a pillow in-between my legs. To get where I was going I repeated what I said out loud, and also repeated what I said silently inside my head many times. My destination completed redundancy in a lack of compassion for patience. Where I needed to be would end once received by my goal of that destination. My destination in neutral, moving at a pace that had no rhythm. To get where I was going thoughts of my friend, best friend were initiated, and never concluded. Thoughts of my sister got me to where I was going. Thoughts of a child led me to the infinite of an end. Silently I moved with a going. From where I came is this infinite, that I speak of, without an end. Importantly all that got me to where I started were two half's of my self that met and made contact in the middle of what I didn't know. I was almost there; my destination beckoning me like the finger of a God demanding and intruding, yet begging. The pleasure of my body started to end my infinite. Realizing I wasn't moving towards my destination but my destination was moving towards me, trying to find me, realizing I was not to be received but I was to receive, my destination, my goal to get where I was obsessively searching, traveled up my penis and spurt out onto my stomach in a liquidly white soup called Gods orgasm...
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