Fucking Death

Fuck it all.
Who cares? I know for a fact that you don’t. so why dost thou plague mine conscience? So why do you bother?

Not for me. Not for the mother isle, not for anything

I tire of being the chameleon, of being afraid to hold an identity. I must be terribly insecure to never hold one personality for longer than the people I am around. Why must I mold myself constantly to what I believe is pleasing to those around me. Very seldom is the time that I have been able to let myself go - truly, and tell those around me to simply FUCK OFF. Tell Doyel to go to hell, or just be myself without worrying if "they " will still enjoy my company. Part of the problem I suppose is the fact that I know myself no better than anyone else

....

Fucking Death

Ere late, Death bent and grasped her fine turned ankles as ashen tears dropped silently to the ground forever scarring it. I had Death in my grip and no wails did issue forth from those lips as black as pitch, full and beautiful with no hint of their earlier scorn. Long lustrous ebon strands of her hair in my right hand, I thrust forward again and again. Each time I twisted back sadistically as the fingers of my left hand curled round one of her large maggot - white breasts, nipples perfectly formed yet the color of dead roses. I loved the feel of that cold, frigid skin against my burning flesh; my flaming member penetrating into the softness of her chill womb. Heat grew within her, my life yielding unto hers, she grew wet, and her wetness was as blood. I plunged harder, farther, faster - Hope rose in me and desire erupted within her. I knew that the strength of my life was cracking the iron shell of her apathy. My own red lips feasted on her perfect back and I felt her shiver at their warmth. Both of her large, dangling breasts in my palms, nipples squeezed tightly between my fingers I ground my hips against hers and she pressed back wildly against mine. A faint murmur hummed from deep within her throat and ...

1993