Confused crow hops forward

Burned out, Burned through
Adrift without pain
Without skewers of flame scoring skin
Each day harder to wake
Each day harder to accept
Living after a hurricane
After tumultuous chaos with one new pain rising
Until silence and calm
Wishing to build something storm proof
Something grand
Hard to do with splintered wood
Hard to stop waiting for the storm to pass
To get up
To work on a future
Easier to give up and sink slowly into normal
Than to take the next step forward
Whatever that may be

Broke palace ethics

This place is nonconducive to the joy of spaceflight
Joy in specific is absent
Also motivation beyond pay
Basically what we call rewarding work
Is a step beyond what we have
Instead settling for pay and the hope of vacation to places we can’t afford to love
Vacation spending always outshines daily and that means we get to live in a higher tax bracket where money doesn’t matter only joy
It’s no wonder we love those days away which come carefree because the bill sits on the horizon rather than paid in full
Living in the moment and without care
How could we not conflate place with joy when it’s really the luxury of not needing to worry which makes it all better
If we could live as we choose doing work we love
Work that challenges but also drives
If we felt seen and cared for
We might not feel so trapped
If life didn’t cost so much to sustain
We might live a life more enduring
Instead of scramble
Instead of the slow bleed

Failed state blues

Droplet by droplet time shifts
Each change imperceptible and irrevocable
Spending minutes enriching others as we sink deeper into debt
The economics of survival forcing stress
Shortening our lives and compressing pleasure to the razors edge
Intensity needful to carve one more day from the bloated carcass of dreams passed down
Made illusory by the promise of growth and altruism
Enlightened self interest
Hard to make it when you only need to bump that stock price to jump from the burning building
Safe with a bonus
Dodging the screams and too still silence of the shattered hope for a tomorrow better than yesterday
Priced out of prosperity
Peered at through glass doors
Locked
But with instructions written to the side
First, be born wealthy
Second, comform
Lock picks available for a steep fee
One hundredth of a hundredth percent making it out
Lauded by the machinations of wealth
Media owned by the system
Always with the pointed reminder
“It’s your own fault you aren’t prosperous, see this guy, he made it out, it’s easy, just work hard”
Grinding our self down against the blade
Spent to make another sharp
Living in the beginning of a failing state
Economic collapse disguised as the rise and fall of fortune
So hard to see when worried about the price of shelter
Several generations worse off than the one before
And still they cry we didn’t make this situation
This isn’t the result of decades of the dissolution of protections to keep the greedy from plundering the public good
No, you’re just too lazy
Not hungry enough to revolt is the reality
But we’re getting there

Nightmares are also dreams-Part 41

Bruised, bloodied, and satiated, we settled into our soft but firm bed. For the first time, I’d allowed myself to be goaded by my wife into losing control. To experience the almost fugue state of the total abandonment of control and just did whatever I desired without construct, form, or limits.

I can remember it all but it’s at a remove. Except for brief instances where I felt myself tipping into monstrosity. Knife poised to cut off her nipple as I rode her. The fear in her eyes flooding me with desire and making me painfully hard. I know I stopped after pressing the dull side of the blade in, as if to beginning sawing. I can see the relief flood her body and I remember slapping her tit so hard it left a red hand shaped print against her bone white skin.

I remember the feel of holding onto the dangling ceiling spreader bar while Seth impaled me on his throbbing cock. Filling me up with the war of pain and pleasure. Legs hugging him to push deeper into me. Kissing his mouth like I was searching for a way to feel more. Biting his lip and tasting blood and that flash of regret that I had sent the others away. Wanting more inside me. Seeing Sara approach wearing a small strapon. Her reading that burning desire to lose myself. The thrusting pulse of a slick and thrumming dildo, joining Seth. The feeling of hot wet splashing inside me. The vibration too much for him to endure. The brief moment of respite before some monstrous cock, easily triple what I’d just taken started thrusting in. Turning, I see one of the men I’d dismissed, Jake, and the triumphant smirk of Sara. Jake opened me up. His cock slamming into me while he held me up from behind.
My last coherent memory is Seth sucking my cock slowly into his mouth. Like my dick was water and he was savoring every touch of it.

I remember whipping Sara with her favorite single tail. Each lash showing an angry red line across her ghostly skin. Pulling her off the Saint Andrews cross and giving her to Seth and Jake. I watched her body racked in pain be whipsawed into pleasure at the hands of those men. Her eyes staring into me, mouth open. Deep into subspace. They took her. She laying sideways on the padded bar. Front and back, thrusting her between them. I recall pushing my cock into her open mouth. The feel of her mouth sealing around me and the slow sucking as she pulled one last hard cum from my aching over used cock. Tensing each time she spasmed in orgasm. One hand holding her head in place and the other cupping her bruised breast. Pushing and kneading on the bruises.

I know we took a shower but can’t remember it. I pull Sara’s battered body closer to me. These recollections making me hard. But I’m too tired to do anything. Nevertheless, I push into the pleasant familiar warm of her pussy. Just leaving myself inside of her. With Tara pressing herself against me. Tits pushing into my back. Awkwardly, I reach back and cup her mons in my hand. She murmurs in a half asleep haze, “Thank you, Master.”

Some tension in me breaks at her words, and I drop deep into sleep. The most content person on the face of the Earth.

Sorrow is a language of love

The sky weeps for the passing of beauty
Ripped from this world by terror
Asleep in the belief of safety
Content
But waking in pain
In fear
Looking into the face of one’s god
Pleading for succor
But there are limits on us all
And so we weep
And the brothers who hunt the land eternal
Rage as sight is blurred and torn from us
Stand vigil in the windswept madness
Of a pain
Neverending

A moment quiet enough to kiss

Small sounds escape lips
Tongue dips and dashes
Dance behind closed eyes
That first devouring of you
Our uncertain touch
Becoming more real
As seconds pass without air
But with the mana of your flesh
A sacred union of love made physical
Joined in joy
In desire
In safety
In calm water truths
Not of perfection
But of seeking to know
In caress and sigh
In halted steps and hesitant words
The loudness of your breath against me
The fast beat of our hearts
And the surety
Of being seen
And found

Holidays are approaching

I’ve stayed up way too late doing nothing in particular. Watching strange shows from Brazil with great English voice dubbing. Looking at my phone wanting to feel connected…
Then it flashes me the battery warning and I think, “probably time to go to bed.” My cats asleep in the middle of my bed and I’ll displace her so instead I remember I need to write a post for tomorrow.

This week is Thanksgiving in the USA. Another holiday that has its roots in blood. As if all holidays aren’t problematic icons embodied in a yearly ritual to enshrine the victory of one group over another. I mean it’s hypocritical to teach that it’s about some historical togetherness and all but I question whether or not that actually matters. Knowing the truth about history is a good thing and it can help avoid past mistakes in favor of all new atrocities.

But being mad about a holiday seems pointless. Get together and change it if you need to. Change the name and people’s cultural relationship to it. But mostly, it’s an excuse.

That correct. All holidays are an excuse. Mostly it’s to take a day off. For those lucky enough to be able to afford it. And even for those who can’t, its the opportunity to say fuck it, I’m taking this time for myself. For my family, if you’re into that kind straight laced social structure. It’s a way to be irresponsible in a state sanctioned corporate sponsored commercially acceptable way.

And it’s a time to say hi to that cousin you only vaguely remember. To try to restrain yourself, or maybe this is just me, from getting into sociopolitical arguments with people capable of only spouting talking points and appeals to authority. (Headline-If you are making an appeal to authority without data to back it up, you’ve already lost the argument.) And eat food you wouldn’t normally eat.

Some people, mythically to my mind, get to hang out with friends and have fun. I’ve never seen it, except on Single person Christmas, aka Halloween, and even then that a socially awkward sexually charged powder keg. It’s one overly fruity mixed drink away from making a pass at your married boss with his wife right there. Or laughing at someone’s use of fetish gear as costume and demonstrating proper flogger technique in front of people you know are friends of friends who will spread that like wildfire.
Not that this is a bad thing, I just don’t like awkward conversations about what drunk, no filter me, said when I am sober slight filter me.

Maybe I’m just not who these Holidays are aimed at. I know there are people who love this stuff. Love the gossip about nothing and the skirting of taboo topics at least until someone says grace.

Another thing I don’t do. I’m fairly certain my lip service Christian family would neither take a blessing from my faith nor would my faith be likely to bestow blessings. Honestly, if asked for a blessing, I think the proper response would be something like, “The choices we make have consequences. Whether those consequences are good or bad depends on where you are standing when they occur. This means that whether we act or not, either is a choice. Make sure you make your choices wherever possible. Don’t allow your choices to make you.”

But there is no appeal to a higher authority which seems to be the point of prayer.

So maybe I just don’t get it. Or maybe I do. But in any case, Holidays are meant for people to pause and see. To look around in the frenetic drawn out scream, and maybe, for once, listen.

But what do I know? I’m just a man who needs to move his cat, so he can go to sleep.

The flensing knife turns inward

I’ve been creatively burnt out for the last few weeks. It’s not entirely anything to do with the big things like work or relationships. It’s the little things that I have let eat away at my free time. Leaving me with no time to sit and be. No time to experience the world as time slips away.

Being so busy that any time…and here I have to stop and redirect because work crept in. Because it’s gotten to be insidious. It slips into any crack which if I turn it off, it becomes that I was unreachable and that is the issue.

Which is why I am writing this at 4am.

In alot of ways work is better, my relationship is better but my friendships and my writing and my actual life seems to have all suffered.

I have never been one to strike a balance. I throw myself completely into things. And that passion sees me through but it also breaks me.

It’s the inevitable, inexorable schism between what is needful and what is best. And much as I thrive in the situation where the world is burning and every action I make can turn the rudder, eventually…the boat sinks and the drowning begins.

And I am oh so weary of dying by inches in that way.
Something has to happen. And I don’t know if I have the mental fortitude to make the life choices required.

It seems like I was so much happier when I was a villain. But maybe it was just that I was young and didn’t see the terminus. The inevitability of less ahead than behind.