Not Existing

You may be sitting in your chair where it is safe. In your bunker, a mile deep in the ground. Different residences, changing. Bombs dropping on some hapless village idiots who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. No, you are still safe, with your cadre of female bodyguard/assassins who are so virginal that the pope visits you periodically for a fresh supply of blood. It’s a good thing her blood is type o negative, because when you are shitting blood, she will come in handy. And you are shitting blood with the same increasing degree of frequency as the dropping bombs. You didn’t know that you could be strangled through your intestines, with your intestines. It must be those slippery Jews, Mossad, special internal division, squeezing themselves into your asshole every time you try to take a shit. Your giant rolling Indiana Jones turds can’t stop them either. They dive into your colon, away from your body guards, away from the rest of the world. So intimately linked in feces, that as you die, you begin to understand that the whole middle east is the type of shithole that even you can’t escape. Anal Asphyxia has got you.

Style without substance. Art without feeling. Something that everyone finds just so appealing. Searching for that hollow space within everyone, to deposit ideas that burn like the sun.

Part 1

“There is a reason why I’m here,” was the look slapped across his face. A sense of purpose that was relevant, but not as evident because the mirrored reflection distorted the statement into a question of “why?”  Then, all certainty was just as removed as he was from a definite answer. And he was locked in a stare with himself for the time being. What was it that broke the silence? What was it that broke that stare? The cloudy mist of condensation had all but obscured his vision when the drops of water struck him on the nose; he snapped out of it.