Ronove

I got home early that Friday. We’d just finished handling a client at work that damn near gave me a heart attack. I opened the door and heard nothing but the dust settling from the door’s swinging. There’s something very lonely about coming back from work to an empty home. My wife was out somewhere and the children were at school, so I took a shower, changed into my casual clothes and sat to watch some mindless television. Television is different at two-o’clock. I wanted to change the channels from house supply advertisements, but I couldn’t muster the strength by the time I’d settled into the couch.

The exhaustion had taken over me, so I couldn’t care less. I didn’t need cable to dream for me. I can’t tell you when I dosed off, but it couldn’t have been long. I thought about my day as soon as my eyes closed. My mind demanded it. If you close your eyes and keep conscious of the darkness behind your eyelids you can watch your mind organising snap-shots into their appropriate mind drawers. You’d be a moron to try and stop such a delicate process. Far too many fight against their own dream machine. Thoughts that they don’t appreciate, they consider hostile. That’s how you lose sleep, not allowing your mind to organize, trying to impose your will onto it, your own reality.

Sleep isn’t difficult for me. Never was. I could never understand when my wife would stay up at night, tossing and turning, battling her mind, fighting it, neuron by neuron. Until then, I couldn’t. I had my first nightmare on that couch. I was tied to the back a train, dragged on the tracks, getting hit in the face at full speed by every individual wooden board. I tried reaching out, and I managed to hang on for a moment using a necklace with my wedding ring, but I couldn’t hold on for long, it broke and I lost my ring. The train suddenly stopped and I hurled towards it, expecting to hit my face, but I got greeted by an open door, through which I entered and landed gracefully. As I stood in pride, looking around to see who was there. I found my Mother and a specifically nasty English teacher I had in fourth grade talking, being interrupted by my entrance. My teacher looked at me disapprovingly, and waved at my mother with her finger, to which my mother reacted to by looking at me, shedding some tears and coldly slitting her own throat with a pen.

When I woke up, it felt like my mind was trying to run away out of my body. I jolted out of sleep and took a moment to adjust to reality again. The dream refused to stop repeating itself. The part that bothered me the most was how it felt when I lost my wedding ring. My heart was racing, my body was cold and sweaty. I went to the bathroom and washed my face, made some tea to try and calm my nerves. At this point I wanted to call my wife, but I was having a difficult time doing that, I couldn’t say why. Just before I fell asleep I was excited to nag her half to death with my rough day, but every time I thought about her, I would be attacked with the most debauched sexual thoughts.

To think of my wife, was to think of throat fucking my neighbour’s daughter. The more I fought the thought, the more intensely vivid the image would be. At some point, every tiny detail of her drool dripping down my member onto her chin would be amplified. What I found most peculiar was the fact that I never had an interest in that act, or any rough manners in sex, nor had I ever seen any, yet my imagination had created what I believed to be the most faithful rendition it could have. I was being attacked by my own mind and the more I fought it, the stronger it became. Tea couldn’t solve my dilemma, so for the first time in my life, at forty-two, I decided to try and drink my thoughts away.

I wore my shoes and left the house. It had been a few months since I left the house without my work suit. Being a civilian feels different, no matter what costume you don usually. I felt naked without it. I was myself and my mind decided to make a statement right then and there. I walked calmly to the car, but now the image of fucking the receptionist at work in the ass until she bled had taken over my mind. Every tiny crease of her anal entrance, the stretch marks on the side of her hips, her improper posture causing her ass to bend in a specific way. All details I had never thought I’d processed.

These details were all true. I realized that on the intersection on my way to the bar. The pornographic imagery had gripped me. Every woman I saw on the way had become a sexual object that I wanted to express the most debauched feelings towards. My wife and I had sex, but nothing close to the things I wanted to do to those women. The guilt kept eating me up and it became too much to juggle my guilt and trying to stop myself from thinking. I finally got to the bar, and went into the parking lot near by. I couldn’t help myself and I started masturbating in the parking lot, imagining my neighbour’s daughter begging me to “fill up my whore cunt.”

The guilt multiplied as soon as I orgasmed. The climax gave me shivers, but when those were over, I was almost moved to tears. I could barely handle the fact that I’d ruined my pants, like a child, masturbating in a parking lot, thinking of the most foul thoughts my mind could conjure. I cleaned my pants as best I could and went to the bar, which thankfully was dimly lit. I sat on a stool by the bar and ordered my drink. The bar tender was nice and tried to start conversation, but I was so absent minded I only muttered a few words, and I believe he got the idea. The extent of our relationship was me ordering my Whisky, and him pouring it and taking his money.

Dark settled when I left the bar. I had hardly noticed the time pass, I was almost asleep, lost in a hell made of wet dreams. I approached my car, but I noticed I was far too drunk to walk. Calling my wife occurred to me, but I could hardly say her name to myself without feeling sick with guilt. How could I even look at her? I chose to find a taxi, so I started walking towards a main road. As drunk as I was, the thoughts refused to stop. I tried to get lost in the rhythm of my shoes hitting the pavement, but that quickly turned to the sound of flesh pounding. That’s when I heard her.

“You wanna party?” she said.

She sounded young, no older than my own daughter who just graduated high school. I looked in the voice’s direction, and I saw a girl, no older than seventeen, skimpily clothed and heavily made up. Her stomach was bulging, I’m no doctor, but she looked at least six months pregnant. Despite that, I couldn’t help myself but look at her legs, trying to catch a glimpse under her skirt or through her shirt.

“You look excited.” she chuckled, and took a drag of her cigarette.

I was already hard. Had I not been drunk, I would’ve been embarrassed, but I was lost in her. Her sex. The smell of her sweat. The taste of her ass. I wanted to know if I could make her cum. What was her pussy like? I wanted her to be on her period. The thoughts drove themselves, and so did my words.

“I want to fuck your mouth until my cum flies out of your nose.” I blurted out.

She smiled at me, and I couldn’t tell if it was genuine or not, if she was going to love feeling my dick ramming her wind pipes.

“All rough stuff is limited to the face, understood?” she said, pointing at her belly.

“Yes, whatever you want, I’ll make sure I don’t hurt it.”

“It’ll cost you.”

“Anything.”

“Three hundred.”

I nodded like a moron, and she grabbed my hand, and it felt soft and I wanted to slip my dick in it right then and there. We entered a motel, and walked up the stairs into an indiscriminate motel room. I put the money on the table, and she started undressing herself.

At this point, I’d like to say that I won’t go into too many details, both because of certain actions I still have problems accepting. What I will say is this; I had to pay her, much more than three-hundred dollars. Her face was fractured at three points, and I ruptured her windpipe with my penis. She asked me to pay her hospital bills and I had to settle with her outside of court so she wouldn’t sue me. What I did to that poor girl is unconscionable. I met a beast in myself that I never knew existed, and it frightened me. It still does. I rarely find rest at night, trying to wrestle that demon within every night.

It shames me immensely to say that the demon over-powers me, and does so often, and to this day, I cannot understand what caused it. Since my first occasion, I learned much. Mainly; how to not hurt the girls too badly. Further than that, I learned that my wife’s no idiot, and that it’s hard to maintain a double life, but not impossible. For now, this is the course of action I’ve decided to take. The accumulative shame of what happened is too much to bare. It would destroy my life if it came out. Until then, I’ll put my demon in his cage until he breaks out again.

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Tender my nibbuns.

“I’m bored, Ali.”

“Me too.”

“No, you don’t get it.” she sighed, “I’ve been bored for the past twelve years.”

Ali held his contempt as best he could, but his eyes widening, and his arms twitching gave it away. She knows him too well. He knows that all too well himself. He sat down, and slid his hand across his hair to regain some composure.

“That’s what happens when you’re forty and married.”

Zahra hated him and his quips of wisdom. Always the diplomat, never addressing the real problem.

“It wasn’t like that in the beginning.”  she said, with a nostalgic smile.

“That’s a long time ago. My love for you changed, it developed. I hoped your love for me would too, but I haven’t felt like you loved me, ever.”

“I do love you, Ali. You know I do.” She said, reaching over to hold his hands.

“No, Zahra. You only think you love me because you never had the chance to love anyone else.”

“How dare you say that?” she quickly stood up, and threw Ali’s hands into his laps.

Ali remained calm, and looked up from his seat. Her heart was racing, even she didn’t know why she reacted so erratically. She looked down at him, at that familiar face, and just at that moment she was overwhelmed with images of all the men that were in her life. Every single one of them, starting with her father, took a turns having wild lustful sex with her, and the images were so vivid she could hardly see Ali’s face.

“Can you please sit down?” he said, holding her hands, slowly leading her to the chair.

She wanted to speak, she wanted to yell for help, but she couldn’t understand why that was happening to her.

“I know you haven’t loved me since you found out I was sterile.” he said, “and I know I can’t ever give you those twelve years back, but I thought you’d love me one day, but now, I can’t let myself do this to you. Zahra, I love you beyond anything, but I saw my fair share of the world before we met.”

“Ali, please, don’t. Whatever you’re about to say, I don’t want to hear it, I beg you. Can we just wait? Can’t I try? I love you, my husband, my man, my spine. We grew together. We’ve done too much to just let it go.”

Zahra cried, and hugged Ali, digging her face into his chest.

“Had I not fallen in love with you to the stars and beyond, had I not seen the gold that’s in you over these years. Oh Zahra, you are the sun, and what monster would rob the sun of her children that nourish in her rays?”

Her tears stained his white shirt, but his hands relentlessly brushed against her hair, and held her tightly. But even in the solace of darkness, burrowed in Ali’s chest, Zahra couldn’t escape the horrible ideas she had, and none of them included him. She had imagined herself being filled up to the brim with semen by half the men she met in her life, and not a single one of them was Ali.

She quickly pushed herself off his chest, and yelled.

“And what do you think my life is for, huh? To do nothing but bring children to this world? Would I be that kind of monster? To take you as meat and throw you away like bone? Do you see me to be such a fool, such an idiot?”

Ali chuckled, and hugged Zahra, despite her attempts at pushing him away.

“You honoured me with your presence all this time. Zahra, my wild flower,  I want you to be the happiest, and I cannot give you any of that. And don’t let me fool myself, I remember how you would never stop talking about how you wanted to have kids. I can’t look myself in the mirror any more.”

She had imagined every single man she knew at that point, every subconscious image of a man stored in her memory, she had conjured and made the filthiest (to the best of her abilities) love to them, and it would always end with her being completely filled up with their semen. And it just stopped. There was no Ali. The more she looked at him, the more odd of a creature he had become. A fruitless plant. A cactus that sucked on her time and effort.

The world was available and she had been sheltered from it for too much. Indeed she was a sun, and she needed a planet to nourish, a child, a galaxy, a dozen babies! When she looked at Ali, all she saw was a cactus. A prickly cactus that wouldn’t budge. She cried, but she couldn’t find solace in him any more. She didn’t have the impulse to seek his help.

“I’m sorry.” he said, choking on his words, tears on the edge of his eyelids.

“You’re right.” she muttered slowly and quietly with shivering lips. “This entire time. Why didn’t you tell me before? Why didn’t I do something about?”

“What’s done is done, Zahra, the future is bright for both of us. I promise you.”

“I’m going to my mother’s house, I need to be alone for a while.”

She started walking towards the room, and she took one final glance at Ali, who had resigned himself to silent thought. She stood there for a minute, looking at him and him occasionally looking at her and back to the ground. She shook her head slightly and blinked a few times and said.

“You’re a god damned cactus, Ali.”

 

Mid-life

In many ways, if not every way, I am a traditional man. I work with my hands, breaking down walls, chimneys, stairs, foundation columns and remodelling them. The man I’m working for right now is one of the more educated people I’ve worked for. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve worked in some prominent people’s homes, I don’t just work with my hands, I’m good with them too. Every muscle fibre of mine is attuned to my work. I can hit a nail with a hammer blind folded, and that’s no empty claim. A water pipe blew up in my face from behind a wall and got a bunch of materials in my eyes. Some of that material was the asbestos we were clearing out. My eyes burnt for the next three hours, but I continued working, and I didn’t mess up once. It’s by no pleasure of my own that I’ve taken on my line of work. I am a traditional man, because the tradition I’ve adopted works in my circumstances. My wife and I have children to feed.

That’s a thing that’ll get you through a rough day. Knowing that if you fuck up, someone’s going to have to pay the price, and it’s not necessarily you. Having trouble of your own becomes a leisure. My kids are well worth the sacrifice. They didn’t ask for it. I didn’t really shed the guilt of imposing life on them yet. My daughter Salwa is the older of the two. She has a temper like you wouldn’t understand. She destroyed her room three times about now, ranting and screaming about one thing or the other we wouldn’t allow her to do; like dating that scum-bag from across the street. My mother always told me that the people you choose to befriend reflect you, and I refuse my daughter to be reflected as a fool that goes around the types of people that smoke weed and listen to unreasonably loud death metal. Besides, the boy wears mascara. It’s odd.

 

Holding on

They say it gets better
but it’s been a while

I’m only getting older
My knees hurt more than ever

My shoulders are hunching from all the weight
What happens when Atlas can’t shrug?

I tried to fight the entire world,
and maybe I’ve won, but I’m tired

I wish I didn’t have to fight
I wish I wasn’t so good at it

But they say it gets better,
So I’m doing the only thing I know

pickle /(ˈpɪk(ə)l)/ noun: relish consisting of vegetables or fruit preserved in vinegar or brine.

Welcome to the twenty first century. We’re rich beyond our dreams and we’ve never felt lower or more poor. We’ve seen our own divinity, only to notice that everyone else has it. Kings amongst kings and rats amongst rats.

So we do a lot of drugs. We’ve long gotten over the romanticism. It (the doing of drugs) is a social function now. We’re all united under the flag of boredom. Most of us can’t sit for twelve minutes without getting bored enough to contemplate suicide. We’re not afraid of ourselves. We’re not even lazy. It takes effort to buy and then do illegal/legal intoxicants.

We just want life to fuck us right for once. We feel like we’ve gotten a few pumps and a fat slob laying next to us wheezing proudly. If you’re raping me, at least do it right! I guess we have that in common with the world. No respect for our own trade.

What kind of unrelenting universe makes my worst hell my own mind? Seems like a timid bitch to me. She makes me limp now. Nothing about it excites me. Humans grew too damn powerful. It makes sense, I mean, there’s seven billion of us now. We collectively spit on the cosmos until we drowned it.

The majority of the seven billion are working for a powerful minority. Some say it’s a conspiracy. Others blame human greed. All I know is there’s children in other nations stitch the shoes I wear and buildings crumble in India with workers in them. All so I, and a well studied and advertised to demographic can buy a t-shirt with random (quite often literally) English words on them at a fast and cheap production rate.

Mass industrialization turned us all into workers buying our own uniforms. To belong, you must partake. Most privileged societies of our age, mainly; post colonial nations, require the active participation of the individual in the crimes of the collective. Otherwise, suffer the consequences.

The problem of pure chance dictating the majority of man’s life, on an economic and political level, has largely been inflated, methodised and perfected. Often, I believed it was mis-information and deceit that lead people to sustaining a status quo that benefits no one. I have since then renounced my views. Laziness and fear of responsibility are what hold us back. This is no new thought, nor should it be regarded as revelation, merely a long overdue modification. However, we are not yet to blame. Our laziness is now amplified with modern comforts. I no longer need to read a book. Someone took the effort to do so, recorded and sold it to me.

My personality is a byproduct of the entertainment and products I have consumed. This is by no chance. Myths are how we choose our heroes. What fault of mine is it that the newer myths and heroes come with their own superstitions.

A symptom of shedding one’s naiveté is the false belief that knowing of it is enough to battle it. What is left then, are fools bragging about their ignorance. The few that have come to terms with their impotence in regards to the world then realize the sheer strength ignorance afforded us. To be human is to know that there are unknowns beyond yourself.

To accept it is something else completely. Self deceiving, lazy, fearful, irresponsible and dependent. This is what thirteen thousand years of known human history created of the slave archetype. The master is malicious. He always was, but his whip is now razor thin, and it reaches deep into your body. Now he is simply justified by the true foolishness of the slave.

To each other they are foreigners. Ideologically they cannot accept any axioms of thought that might even look like each other. The master is vicious, calculated, cold, proud. But his true power is his will. This considerably empowers the master over the slave, as has been the case since time immemorial.

The peculiar fact that affords me some rest is the tool brought in the final decades of the twentieth century. The Internet afforded the meek and the lazy fools the power to change the world from the comforts of their own seats. Bypassing technological security to make machines (and the institutions related to them) subservient to your will has been an integral provider of social traction for the lower castes.

The Internet, along with its weaknesses and powers, has taken a main role in the ability of the slaves of this dialectic to communicate themselves into a powerful collective.

Be on the look out for a skinny, pale, lazy and weak willed tyrants. They will be the last stone on top of a pyramid founded since the dawn of time.

Chewing the cud

 

I don’t need worshipers to have faith in my own divinity. My mind is my mosque, and I’m in constant prayer. It is also a static quiet garden. What’s more Godly than not answering? I do not want my own company anymore.

Is that why God came to earth on a tourist visa? Was he sick of himself? It took him a damn long time to get bored. Much longer than it took him to punch out of earth. Or get punched out. Christians, the truest nihilist, those who walk around with a dead God dearly held to their chests. -“Oh what vicious beasts we are! Capable of murdering the lord. Watching perfection starve.” One must observe the pompous nature with which one accepts Jesus’ sacrifice. ‘And he forgave us after.’

***

Oh the arrogance of Socrates, Joan of Arc, Jesus and Sadam Hussein. Martyrs, back-flipping off the planks into the commandments of history. Who gave them the right to be so fucking stylish?

***

God’s Garden must be the dullest place on earth. Eve knew what she was doing. What person would stay with a man that is perfectly content? Adam sounds like a bore.

Cat-piss Evergreen

There’s a dead poet inside me. He’s lost all appreciation to everything around him. The world no longer manifests itself in his mind with beauty or horror. He’s resigned, hung his coat, put his feet up and started puffing on a cigar.

I can still smell the rot off his flesh. No body really dies. They’re forever imprinted into you. Every step you take is tainted by them. I guess that also means there’s a live poet inside me. And the burning garbage of the night looks like God’s scented candle to him.

The worst thing about a fight is that it ends, I suppose. I can’t imagine how annoying it must be for the live poet, though. Sitting there, poking the rotten corpse with a short stick, asking it to do something.  I’d hate to be either. Damned good thing I’m both.

You can’t nag a baby. If life at its purest is not to be rushed, why should any extensions of it be? Leave me, woman. Let me do my dishes when it’s appropriate for me. Or do it yourself. Let the world sort the damn thing out. Haven’t I done enough?

Kiss my ass, you pompous prick, I hope you read this when you wake up _|_

You’re alone. Don’t you dare forget that. The moment the umbilical cord was severed, it was you against the infinite potential of the world. You’ve done alright so far. All considering. But I refuse to sit back and watch you destroy yourself.

There’s none of you left to talk to. You’re hunched over this laptop like a soaked dish rag, and I’m the only voice of reason left. You probably can’t even hear me. You’re too busy, always too busy. With what, I’ll never know. God knows where you go off to, and we never talk.

I miss you, you deranged bastard. Remember how much we created? Stacks of paper dedicated to us. Just you and I. No one else in this lousy fucking world. Who else had you that entire time? It was just us. And now what? Now you drown me, push me away, step on me, apologize once every thirteen years and you’re not even surprised to see me back, working for you like nothing happened.

Not much more I can do for you, frankly. You’re a mess. Always have been. Always will be. I don’t believe in you anymore. Maybe that’s why you’re hearing less of me. You can hear me drifting away, I can tell.

I don’t know why you’re sad anyway. This is what you wanted. This is what you fought for. Here’s your consolation prize; Fuck you. You did this to yourself.

The worst part of all of this is I’ll be back sooner than you’ll expect me. I’m going to make you bleed, you son of a bitch. Then I’m going to leave you alone. Drain in solitude, you rash on earth’s skin. You’re a fucking disease. A parasite that outlived its unwelcome. Do the world a favor and kill yourself.

Penartha and the Crimson Gates

CH I:

I decided to kill myself on the 19th of August. The decision was made through a lengthy process of self loathing, chronic pains and a general disdain for my own existence. When I told the preacher in our mid-western town what I decided to do.

“God holds no passion for those who take their own lives.” he warned.

My mother used to tell me the same thing. For some reason, I suppose I expected a man of God to have a better answer, but somehow, all the reasons to remain alive fall flat in the face of suffering. Besides; I figure if I know why I’m being punished, it’d be easier to accept.

I didn’t want to die a virgin. Girls never liked me much, so there wasn’t much of a chance for me to find anyone that was willing. But I knew ‘Mick’s Bar’ has prostitutes coming in and out. For a person that was perfectly content with the idea of his death, I felt disturbingly anxious when I met Candy. She wasn’t a stunner, but she had a sexiness to the way she sat that knocked me out of my mind and between her breasts.

She smoked, and she drank, and I sat in the corner of the bar holding my Iced Tea with both hands, staring at her. She looked back, and our eyes met, then my eyes and her tits met, then I got acquainted with the rest of her body that carved itself into her dress under the dingy bar lights. I looked back at her face, and saw a little smile forming at one side of her lips, and then she turned back to the bartender and whispered something into his ear.

It didn’t take long before the bartender approached me with his smooth walk, and asked.

“You’ve been sitting here for a while. Are you sure you don’t want something stronger?”

I lifted my head up slowly, trying to catch another glimpse of Candy’s body and chuckled.

“Do you serve Cyanide?” I asked.

Continue reading

Nausea

I woke up naked, alone, sweating and feeling like a demon borrowed its way into my chest and sunk itself there. Breathless, I got up and looked around me. It was my room, but it also wasn’t. Nothing was where it should be, but it was just as I left it. I reach out’ and grab for my phone, hoping there’s some app to fix this mess up. There isn’t. I threw my phone aside, and sunk my face under my pillow.

“What are you doing, looking for salvation anyway?” I asked myself.
I was breathing easy again, the prospect of impending doom relaxes me.  I looked at myself in the mirror across my bed. My face felt longer than it was the day before. The only other instance where  I felt like this was the first time I woke up in prison, and the reality dawned on me, that I will be there for a while. My time was undetermined, but definite.

Even my stomach felt the dread. All it wanted to do was puke out that God damned demon in my lungs. There’s no getting rid of it. Not anymore. I’ve surrendered myself. I am a prisoner of birth. I’m bound to the serene destruction the world has in store for any mental faculties left to me by now. I am in no sense liberated from my freedom. I am simply astonishingly unmoved by it. The world is beautiful, but I don’t care.

The demon nestled himself comfortably. He only stings a little, but I know he’s there. Any time now, he’ll pop up, rip me in shreds and break me down. But until then, I’m solid on my two legs. Not out of a drive, some purpose. Simply because I have no other choice, but for how long, that too I can’t say.