Cunning is the dirtiest word.

I thought I left you. You were walking and you passed right through me. You didn't shiver, but I was certain you passed me by. I'm still in you though. I thought I left you and I was wrong. I took my life out of me and put in you. But no matter how hard I try, I cannot figure out who is haunting who.

Neveraine, it always rains: Narrative of a life under the ground.

http://www.extremerestraints.com/leather-body-harness-with-cock-ring_2124.html

I sit here in the obscure crevice, of my gloomy apartment, shaking with struggle, as the wolves circle in. All around, all is black, as the industrial coal smoke, smoldering with a tumult of howling hovering above; the black clouds spinning around in circles over the whimpering little glob of goblin. I am the broken chimney sweep. I cackle with cancer: woe (cough), woah (cough). The night is bad, fragrant with clove and Frankenstein's frankincense. Frankly disgusting: me in the mirror obscured by a twisting nether of smoke. A warlock's fantasy? No, the candle's flame is immolation that I've trained so I can superimpose myself into the wax and pretend I am burning. The point of identification is on the razor's edge.

Seething is seeing...

I am sorry underlings. I hate to be lugubrious, but tonight I find only self-hatred. I'm sure many of you were there tonight, at The Sepulchre, gorging yourself on blood-n-vodkas, seizing to the grave and haunting melodies of DJ Mired, and having a phantastic time. And I was too, for a while. Vivian Duskwood III (you may know her, she's heavily into body mods) showed up and she looked negatively possessing in her new boots. She told me they set her back a large sum, particularly large as the store-wisp* wouldn't let her buy the the third boot without buying the 4th. But damn did she have some sort of ghastly gravitational pull as she hobbled around the bar. And I need not say any more of the unspeakable horror, the slivery slight that happened next... It's like the eternal struggle...

On the mountain, no in the mountain. Yes in there I sit. Tonight I have realized, I am the Dagoth Ur. Lovely, lovely lava is my only longing. My head has swollen, is neatly containing, a great deal of dark energy. Mana burns, but pain is pleasure. It's why I get along so well with the lava; what a sensuous creature. It it burning up in me, from the prophecy.

Have you ever heard the sound of rain bouncing off the side of volcano. And the warmest fire burning. That old steel staircase I just shot down from the ceiling with a bolt of lightning. I don't need the stairs anymore, what with my powers. It was beautiful as it was falling from up there near the mouth. Now it's beautiful sinking. It'll start melting soon; the return to magma. Rain rain rain, volcano volcano volcano.

Oh look, one of the giant vampire bats just fell into the lava. Oh what a terrible noise it's making. It's gone now. It's still raining.

There's some sort of armor man stomping around outside! He's almost made it into the entrance hall! I can feel he's come to kill me! Never mind, he didn't even make it past the skeleton guards. It's still raining.

FANTASY!

It's fantasy time, fantastic!

This is a simple fantasy. A very large man, over 8feet tall, and not wearing much for clothes and somewhat hairy and maybe a little dirty with a big beard. This man grabs and slams my face down into some grass. He places one of his very large bare feet on my back and steps down as if he were going to squash me. At having this done to me, I begin to struggle and sprawl but despite my efforts to escape I am no match for his savagery. Then with one of his hands he grabs both my feet by the ankles while still with that foot of his on my back and he pulls up hard on my legs as if he was trying to pull me apart. For a second I feel as if, I really might come apart but then my back creaks and I sigh with a spine intact and perfectly in line.

It's good to be back

Leaves That Get Carried Away

It was a sleepy afternoon, yes, no one was really awake enough to be paying much attention. A warm wind running its fingers through the leaves has a way of, well, making one ignore the unpleasantries around them, or even suspecting that they are in fact, unpleasantries. Absolutely perfect, undeniably, that is the way to describe her. That wooshing sound, the rushing calm breezing by and zooming away. Oh I am nothing much, just a bit of soft air chiming in here and there.

She fell asleep in the tire swing,I walked up and blew gently on her face, I'm just the wind little leaf...

An old women walking her dog strolls by and I immediately say to her "G'day Misses, really couldn't be better could it?"

"Oh I really don't think so, lovely little thing you've got there. Me and Coco are on our way to do a bit of napping ourselves," she says without ever really stopping and hardly needing to slow down. She just stretches her voice a bit to get it here and there and leaves the wind to do what it will with her words.

I pick the leaf up out of the tire swing stirring below the tree, and I carry it away.

Miles and Miles and Miles we drift. A blowing, gusty nothing, that is all I am. She rises and falls and soars to places. but never really begs to be set down. And then when I'm done twirling her, I deposit her on the ground, to let her whither, and crumple. I bow out and blow away to the next set of leaves to rustle. I am nothing, nothing much.

The popular front

I am what might be called shivering. Yes cold. Cigarettes will in fact smoke themselves if you don't pay attention, which is why you must smoke them. I must tell you all something, god has been speaking to me. He has in fact, been deploying a certain aspect of sign language, but his hands are freezing cold when they touch me. It's mostly when I sleep. Which is why I am not sleeping. Melatonin, once certain threshold dosages are achieved, will in fact induce hypnotic trances, Hypgnosis. Something is not right in my system. Diagnostics, to this point, have failed me. They return me to a self-referential state, namely a nervous association with the being of Ezekial Ponto. God has told me the problem dwells in the cardio-vascular sphere, an entity that restricts appropriate blood flow and creates certain aporia in a localized constituency of thermo-dynamics. I am what might be called shivering. I haven't been able to martial the requisite utilities and materials for erecting an erection in almost two thousand years. The cigarette is smoking itself, the cigarette is smoking itself! There is no end, I smoke them. I meditate on the only visible word, dissociation, which implies a dissociation from something. It is by itself, quite alone and singular and totally without separation. God tells me that the universe is mainly composed of god but there are certain areas where space is expanding faster than the speed of god, and thus these areas are what he calls "off limits." He says I am one of the these areas, but he does it anyways, because "hell, it's a cold world out there and sometimes god needs to do (to me) what only god can understand." I am Ezekial Ponto, I am shivering.


Smoke is the index of cigarettes, it is how we track them, even in conditions like these. Ezekial Ponto once collapsed into an infinite recursive loop that both began and ended with Ezekial Ponto. But he had to spin around twice to spin around once. He was always spinning, trying to get back to where he started. The last puff of a cigarette is in fact the first puff of a cigarette. I am what might be called shivering. Light is undulating. I am writhing. God tells me that the last puff of a cigarette is in fact light writhing. Ezekial Ponto once was writing about god touching him with cold hands while he was spinning a cigarette. It fell and began rolling trying to get back to where it started. The cigarette picked Ezekial Ponto up off the floor and took his first puff, which was a last puff because he was spinning trying to get back to where he was shivering. In doing this, the cigarette fell into an infinite recursive loop where Ezekial Ponto was shivering at the possibility of what I am?

The tattered remains of nothingness

Our last time together

We didn't always used to be very close friends; I used to distrust him on account of his involvement with the military. Overtime however, I learned to see past the cold, metallic camouflage that one quickly learns to put on in the army, or else die rather gruesomely. It may have disguised your weaknesses, prevented certain undesirable information (I need not say more than this, dear reader!) from becoming conceived of, but Sam, I am weak now, I am the one gruesomely dying. I have nothing to hide because I have nothing.

Only the stubborn memories of summer evenings are left, when we were caught somewhat alone lurking through the forest performing certain maneuvers (of strolling along gaily). I would kiss the lip of a vodka bottle, and drink its intoxication. You were my Vodka bottle Sam. But I didn’t get to finish you, not even most of you. You never got the chance to run out, no, you had to be smashed into the ground because someone wanted to look powerful.

I would open you up Sam, curiously look at what you were made of, and lovingly touch a few of your parts because I knew what you needed to keep going. You were made of fire Sam, brilliantly glowing flames that only that damn metal could contain. That flaming core of yours was aching, would die to only be set free on a more docile, and abandoned world that one can only reach after falling through heaven and clouds. You would land again and shatter into a billion little glowing orbs of light that would mix in with the rest and the world would be noticeably brighter. Oh my dear Sam, why did you have to leave me, and give yourself up as only a little bang for only a little bird. That’s all they thought you could give Sam, but I know that wasn’t the only thing inside you. You were no lover of war, but war sure as hell loved you.

Now though, I look where you used to lay, where you were sleeping before you stood up to get ready one last time, and I see your shape. A rough outline of you is haunting me, and I can’t fill in the rest.