Old Worlds Aflame

   The smoke arises to blend with the dawn light haze, as into misty morning the flames are dying embers of the drama that consumed the blackened remains; contortionist exhibitions of flames to tear into the structure that was once a portal between two realms. A protagonist flippantly tosses the singed remnants of a cigarette to match the ever more singed body of the cigarette that ignited the flames hours ago; leaning against empty fuel canisters with a face flashing anarchist flare to match the blaze of a night’s overzealous act to save all that’s reflected in the reckless depth of our protagonist’s soul.

   Two worlds stood solid; a stoic stand of faithful stone so solidly built in honest work that friendships imbued in each brick ran through the land that hard graft and painfully observed patience has made it possible to build, the other a towering rock of jagged etched foreboding threat to secure in isolation the very thing of corrupt origin the protagonist must keep in secret. The only link made of wooden pieces that with every step between worrying creaked as times own affect weakened its structure, a mirror of this process in every heavier step our man took for the weight of a mask to distract from his real state of self that made each step to cross falter and in effort appear visible weak.

   But as eyes turned inwards in that communal formation of a most supportive keep the man we see with callous smirk who coldly leans before that originally referenced deconstructed bridge, fire the agent of volatile destruction in every lustful leap of a flames lick, he sees lives of close friends tower in judgmental hate over the ramshackle shelter that for a whole life has barely seen even a most desperately begged for lick of paint.

   How fanacically did he strive in ever increasing length to match their exploits and seek to triumphantly arc in personal achievement a very public reveal of all he could accomplish, fallen fatally flat as in tortured conversations that coldly expressionless figure before the bridge burnt has felt the creeping sting of being outgrown from adolescent adventures and care free escapes.

   A line of thinking creases the brow from the eyebrow of one aggrieved eye to the other in escalating waves of doubt “Have I protected what once they thought of me in this distancing act? Have I deepened the trapping pit of what exhaustion they felt at carrying my poorly arse around with them in charitable acts?”

   Some small comforting value brings a twisted flash of pearly white teeth in the darkly reflective logic that by cutting off that rapidly rotting part of our protagonist’s life, he will be blissfully spared the knowledge of ever having to know the truth, in the slumping nature of the slanting incline of his body and descending head it would appear to give only fleeting relief.

   Alone with his ghosts he is forced to ponder “What if all I perceive in all I see of others faces and actions, the damnation and resenting looks, is just an illusion that has jaded the truth?” followed in derogatory fashion by “What if I was wrong?”

   Upon his jagged fortress of hollow rock a dejected figure turns to face the lonely unloved hovel that is loosely called a home, the taunting jabs of ghosts and shades from all of failures deepening, suffocating, grip is now a second hand fate to make mockery of the depressingly underwhelming series of acts that constitutes a dead-end life.

 Will he ever be brave/stupid enough to ever return?

 

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The Second Demon

I thought only one demon inhabited my pain
That which sees me in the mirror and me to see it reflected
Then that one I hold no control over does emerge
If only it were some hideous thing
But alas it is silken wrapped and all in gold

Regardless to what is perceived the pain is real

Love in the eye of a deviant turned

She sauntered a seductive click of her heels so slow as the clock between minute movements was a picture more than machine, a slight so subtle hair flick that to trained eyes scream a thousand times the sound of her deafening demands of his form

He paused a frightened stutter of a step to pause with anxiety alight in his gut to rage the wretched feeling that she was his, a rope to bind tight would not compare a mite to the suffocating need in her victim she could so deliciously ignite

On a raise of her long luxurious legs she reached with theatrical ease to touch his lips a prolonged absence of breath to bring in her man an enraging effect, such as his eyes were now in fixated thrust as a tongue was sparking fantastical dreaming all that would be his

He could only forlornly wish in haggard sighs from the damning range that in a few metres was more oceanic in distance and hazardous style, a rageful lust to want once more the reviving warmth to burn a thousand degrees inside with the slightest sensational feel of her ruby red embrace

She so hot a hell of a burn when first they met in the sun drenched glorious encounters that would make the most devout of priests run from god in the arms of sinful acts, now so cold an arctic blizzard would falter in comparing temperament of hailing ice in all the reactive coldness of her serpentine stare

His empty glass exalted stillness and calm in clammy hand to rival venoms livid flow in veins running crazy mad with jealousy spewing hatred at the bitch he wanted to murderously hold, each memory made a merry gleam of all they were twisted down to stain the misery sodden gutter in which all that hope made was discardingly thrown

Loves commitment turned in betrayals debasing corruption to cupids shackle no longer rested on his finger as with fitful fury a projecting throw of Olympian value it rested in unwanted fashion upon the bars gloom soaked floor, now a mere trinket of hollow value to put to rest the growing tab a loving fool owes when romance turns a shrivelling bitter shade of deathly sour

Her wedding ring had long since rested in rusting abandon in a room where so spontaneously loving and with suns first rays her perfection shaming body was freshly blessing had sealed his worries with wicked flesh and ferocious motion

Now to wait a nights reflective melancholy for the ever satisfying moment of a fist upon her perfect flesh to relish in all the unrelenting need to punish such a painful deception when once in shameful shuffle she passes his bar stool, damn to the devil the consequences for one violent exchange in a soon to be socially critical crowd as that slithering women finds all the passionate anger a broken man finds at the bottle of a shot glass

Her hope to find the man beneath the sheep she will once more call lover when all that has been afflicted makes of him a demon, a thing to ravish all that once appeared respectable in every depraved act that only those of madness possessed can every truly perform

Lovers lies and the lives they make broken things

The creeper in the dark so stealth like, as to pass unseen a cat’s whisker untold in the cold light of day is on the hunt with which every decent fibre screams not to leave on virtue another mark

The glint so deep as a shadow of a thing in the hardest edge of a spy like smile betrays its possessor with the flash of snipers glass, a shot rings out as the victim grips our convicts hands and the bullet meets

No blood, no mess, just a new figure of a ghost to haunt a hundred dreams in frightened sleep, for the fear to wake up and find that the nightmare is over and to live an illusion of happy eyes in another humans longing face is what constitutes their real life

For some the only way to be is what a lie tells a lie for the hope that the curse of others perception is not a curse, but a false truth of a strength to perceive weakness as all in their black heart is twisted well and shot with venom from a corrupted tongue

“I’m fine” “I’m just a bit different” “I can live with that” “Your insults can’t hurt me”, choose your god like lie in all its deceptive power and think not of the bridges burnt in all the guiltless daggers thrown with not so much a second thought

Human cost no more a payment to count a sin of a word with all the cursed purse that with hollow lies you have stolen, from all those who once uttered in silken sheets that one arrow to pass through all the steel plated fragments of a personality pieced together… “I Love you”

What deeper cut can mark with invective pain all that reflection of a creature you once called you soul, but “Your insults can’t hurt me” is all that hurt victim that will be as the ghost may mutter will in pained looks hear, “I’m fine” the final blow

It’s but a test of a type to secure the blackened remains of a matching heart that will one day scar you as freely as that hand of red does wield the scalpel to lesser beings with but three so perfection filled words “I’m fine too”….

For like perception, Love is different when yielded by the broken and the shamed

 

How to sabotage relationship hunting and alienate 99% of women

The latest insult of a dating profile:

Every few months the loneliness gets too much and I give in and write a car crash profile that sabotages any hope of a shot in hell from a galloping horse style chances of hitting heavens gates, in terms of success
One day I might even just write a suicide note!

I’m a good guy, steady job and in terms of character I’m a passable human, not going to pretend you’d like me all the time because I have it in me to be a Grade A a-hole, but I keep that crap to myself mostly and a quick verbal slap generally rectifies the problem

I like walking, country pubs (never drink booze but love pubs) and would love to take in some culture down London way, but theatres trigger anxiety something fierce cause I hate waiting around and being trapped in busy social places (major attracting point for the ladies I suspect!)
Always thought sitting way above it all in a technicians booth would be cool, see the show and none of the hellish anxiety and stress as you enjoy it from the shadows

I hate humanity but like people, the ones I don’t mind having to spend time with anyway!
And I work in a field that is health and safety, background check and plain bat shit paranoid crazy it hath instilled in mine person a healthy dose of privacy issues to sabotage any hope at starting a relationship in the first place (major good at selling myself, honest…)

What I really want to do is meet someone who reads this and laughs wickedly, smiles a sly grin in midnight tones and figures I’m worth messaging if the only slither of corrupting cat curdling curiosity is to see a face to match to the crazy man writing anti-social shit on a dating website
That person I can have a conversation with

Now there is no glorified fantastic selfie of me surfing whilst saving a dolphin and posing next to a Disney princess (would love to see someone pinch their arse and get a fist full princess knuckles on camera no less!) because face it, this profile is down right ditch dirt terrible and who in sanity’s’ salvation puts a face to this voluntarily
Throw me a message, I post a convict style shot of me looking decent and handsome (subject to your personal opinion), you decide if I’m worth more than two words or an insult for the princess comment

If you are indeed in villainess fashion grinning or laughing your head off, message me and let me know I’m not some one off freak who gets this kind of writing
If the horrified face your showing puts the creepy girl crawling out of the TV in ‘The Ring’ to shame, a hint;”I’m not y’type honey so shuffle to the coffee shop scene and give us barflies some real plain speaking ladies to insult us” as someone in a noir film would so eloquently word it

Car Crash signing off!

Can you believe I’m still single?!

It’s 4:00am, nuff said

Guilt be damned, I way too fucked not to twist that bitch into a Manic fit from Hell and the razorblade sits pretty in the mirror anyhow cause that bar steward’s serving poison happy hour style

Damned is damned so ain’t no dagger to twist that’s not doing a friggin roly-poly anyway

Now love…. Now we throwing the A-bomb and a bad day in a bar around for kicks!