Dialogues with the Self

Isolated, marooned, despondent, me a piece of shit. The world and its wishes smile bitterly at me. I sink in my wretched abyss disappointed. Am I schmuck of disaster, noble of countless mishaps? Forge my soul in the shit of hell. I feel like committing suicide. I see Camus waving at me and saying things will be alright. Is it my delusion or is it real? Sex is a dead prison.  When can I have the poetry of lyrical intimacy? When will sex become a poem of lyrical beauty? When will a woman become warm hearted and tender to me? When will she make me open to her orifices? Angst plagues my soul like a psychopath.My ego is so deflated. I am locked up in the asylum of defeatism.Why did you die for my sins? I need to taste the relish of Epicureanism. Why do you close all doors for me? I am carrying the cross of a wretched life. Sometimes I wish to be shed of life and be a still-life statue. Devil, you are a mocking penis. Why can’t covetousness be a virtue? The world of values is a carnival. When will the rites of ecstasy shed her lady luck on me? Me a being? Amazing! Metaphysics is a pile of muddy water. Transcendence is a hyperbolic cunt. Dissolve the consciousness that is in my body. Sodomize it with a poem of beauty. Bitch wife, I have so much love to give and yet you don’t want an iota of it. Bitch wife, you have made me sick in the mind. My soul is a whimsical butterfly. Eros is tranquilized death. Bitch wife, all I want is a caress, a kiss, a hug and you fucking bitch you deny it. I have stopped reading astrology. Karma is warped in the neurons of an angstual plague. You fucker be kind to yourself. Give your heart the freedom to love. Don’t blow your soul to smithereens of existential shit. Nirvana, I have found you perched on wings. When the present is bleak, how can I anticipate a bright future? What a joy can sex bring? I long for you darling. Yet you are so far away. When can we make love like the old times? Passion is the ocean of ecstasy. When can I resurrect my body with sex?  If I was in your place, I would have been tempted by the devil. My wife is a slut of boredom. Every day the bitch kneels and cries before you. God you have denied me so much in life.

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Horror-Horoscope

The demented astrologer says this is a period of trials and tribulations. Why cast your shit on me, you poltroon. Venus shits in Mars and Neptune urinates in Leo. Fortune smiles with a fart. Tarot you are anal agonies. Why the fuck can’t you draw luck to me? Why blaspheme my soul with shroud of obscenities that make me withdrawn from the world. Astrologers are fucking shit holes. Psychics are assholes. Tarot readers are motherfuckers. Yes the moon is on the ascendant with a big bum. Sun is a shitting ball of white in the commode of Jupiter. Woe to you, I hate you all motherfuckers.

Epistle

God! Do you have to be virtuous and so pious? Why make me feel ashamed with the concept of sin? What good is life if life on earth is a misery? I become repentant, yet you are not kind to me. Why mock at me with goodness? Why can’t you tolerate my inequities? Why can’t you grace my fortunes? I am not the nails that have crucified you. I am not the hands that have been washed in public proclaiming that you are innocent. I did not betray you with thirty pieces of silver. I have not liked the wife you adorned me with. When you say that: I am the way: truth and the life: it makes no sense. I have searched my within and found an abyss of angst. David committed adultery and yet you forgave him. Since 2013, I have been living with a bitch of a wife in a rut. Lord why don’t you feel pity for me? Is there room in your heart for the fruit tender kindness? Have you forsaken me forever to live in my misery? God, I am heartbroken, weary and tired with the ways of men and with you. Solace is an existential worm.

The Moon

The crystal ball was out early, hanging as an immaculate witch in the sky…I gazed at her like a poetic ornament…I was tantalized by her reflection on the mango tree…I felt my phallus being sodomized by a witch…I became a poet and started writing poetry…There she lies gazing at me with poetic splendor…She made me a wizard of imagination…I said a hi to her by pinching my nipples…There, her reflection is falling on the window sill of my house…I am listening to Bach and eating electric sandwiches…My soul is over amorized…Witch from a coven, yield your poetic soul to me…Yes, I have fallen in love with you….

Britney

I met her on a dating site (connecting singles). We instantly fell in love. Soon I used to Whats app her with sweet nothings. She said that she has been to India many times and is planning to come again. I used to write erotic love poems for her. She used to emoji me with love icons. Then she told me that she is India to do business. She told me that she works as an agro-consultant. She told me that she wants to procure Sacha Inchi a herbal extract used to make medicines. She told me that I should be a middle man and contact the company email given by her. Meanwhile her boss called me and said that he is pleased to do business with me. Then she told me that she will be coming to India to purchase 15 liters. I was to purchase 3 Liters as samples. When I wrote to the company they said 3 Liters comes up to 17000$. Then I did a web-search and found that 1 Kilo of oil costs only 50$. Then I realized that she was a scammer.

Epiphanies

My body is corpse of rotten flowers –my soul an angst ridden Sisyphus—Where’s warmth of a woman gone? When can I smell sweet Jasmine on your hair? When can I caress your hair with trembling fingers—your lips are sweet wine—When can I immerse on them—I long to plant loving kisses on you—When can I kiss the vermilion on your forehead, the sign that you have a husband. Adultery is the passion of poetry. When can I fondle your mounts of Venus, suckle your nipples like a child. I am fond of lesbian voyeuristic sex. How playful are they when they fondle their erotic breasts…How adorable are they when they sodomize themselves with their tongues…oh how I love to hear them moan in ecstasy.

The Cult

Vladimir Brodinsky was writing a report in the New York Times on the murder of Professor Ioan Couliano, the Prof. of Religions at the University of Chicago who is famous for the book ‘Eros Magic and Murder in the Renaissance’. Prof. Ioan was shot dead in the bathroom from a bullet sustained on the head. There are various conspiracy theories at work about the murder of the Prof. and they range from him having plotted against the Communist regime in his native country to him having been assassinated by the secret cult called the Signeggmati for having been blunt on the agenda of secret societies. The police and the FBI remain clueless about the murder. He sighed after finishing the last letter on the keyboard. Yes, he was loyal to the cult and he contemplated that a brilliant mind had to be put to sleep. After that he gave an enigmatic smile.