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.

He believed in something. Something about a dream that didn’t come true…a terrible nightmare. believe in something. He didn’t believe in himself. But he did believe the lies he was told. He believed he was someone else. They were so strong that he made others believe too…believe in that someone else. the only way he could tell who he really was, was to look in the mirror. And even that soon ceased to show him the truth.

Something about notes written in his own blood, addressed to his own soul. But he could never read it with his own eyes. You see, they were no longer in his possession. And his obsession, knew no bounds or limits. This was no gimmick, no cry for help among the living. And when they found him, he had expended all the life that he was given.

I beg you to take notice, of excitable personas, most likely to take doses, for numbing their emotions.

He was running down the street with the greatest concentration on it. Clenching every muscle of his body; sweat dripping from his forehead; light distorted by the very heat radiating from his body. He bumped someone—that was a close call. “Hail a cab maybe?” he thought. “No, it must be closer than I think.” Bursting through the door pushing away the Maitre D’ while yelling “where is it? where is it?” “Ahh finally.” HE finally sits down on his mantle, but instead of a relief his thoughts drift away altogether. The thought of completing the journey is more relief than the actual destination could be.

The spinning ceiling gave way to flashing images of a life he wasn’t sure was really happening. He awoke the next day with a sizable hangover that made it all but impossible to get out of bed. An intense headache pulsated from his neck to the top of his temples. Strangely though, he felt the greatest relief. But then he realized he was just preoccupied with his present condition.

He was a monkey in a suit, with a cigarette completing the appearance. Big bulbous glasses concealing his blank stare. And of course, the belt matched the shoes. “Is that a banana in your pocket or a bunch of hundred dollar bills rolled length-ways?”–that was the line from the commercial. The director speaks: “You know, it almost looks a wall street big shot if you glance in it from a distance. Perhaps a wig will help the effect. Somebody get me a wig!” But the monkey didn’t notice any of this. Although the dark sunglasses helped somewhat with the flashing lights, the screams of the director would still startle It. He reached his tipping point when a heavy rag was placed on his head. “He chomped her fingers like a bundle of those small sweet bananas that you see in the supermarket,” said the police officer to the coroner while helping himself to some leftover set food. “Why the hell do they always go for the extremities?”

He can be a leader if only you’d follow. If only he’d lead himself out of this slump. Take the lead and destroy every one of your lives. Because as long as you lie beneath him, there’s no place left to go but up. And he will get a rise out of you—high on power—but you will be powerless to stop his demise. Better to have been, once upon, he always said. Better to have been the king, long live, the king is dead.