Monsters we are, monsters that hide under flesh, gleaming eyes, sharp teeth, foul breath. We wait for dark to settle, for the shadows of ignorance to blanket the mind, then we sink our teeth and claws into your cold dead flesh. We don’t like the live ones, but that isn’t a worry since there’s so few of them, the live ones. We sink and we tear and we rip and we shred, then we mash meat and gargle blood and floss our jagged teeth with the sinews. We live like this because we want to wake people, we want to scare people from their desultory dreams, but we find that not only are these people unmoved and unperturbed, they’re altogether dead. There is no heinous crime desecrating the sleeping dead.

Flowers line the walkway. Little children in white dresses saunter ahead dropping petals as they walk. Oak trees sway as rays of light poke through the branches and land on the path before me. I grasp her hand and squeeze gently an affirmation of assurance, of our bond.  The children vanish and I am left staring into a hand holding only a pen, a slender cylindrical pen dark as the ink it jets. I continue weaving these fabrications onto paper before I hear a ring for supper. I  close my book and head downstairs to discover my family laying on the floor, in a heap, dismembered and bleeding, their eyes still open, their mouths still gaping their last gasp. They’ve been dead for weeks now but the stench is hardly the concern, rather its the putrified puddles of blood and bile now squirming with fly larva. I grab a stack of books on the stairs and lay them before me in the humors, like stepping stones, and make my way to the kitchen.  A waft of turkey liver titillates my nostrils just as I pop open the microwave. My favorite.

The hedges trimmed nicely, I thought. The sidewalk is swept and the mailboxes are full with new news. I observe a serry of school boys across the way huddled under the stop sign. They were probably in college by the looks of their swagger. Boat shoes and collared tees, frayed hats and cigarettes, all coupled with a laughter that bellowed into the air like toxic smoke that choked my lungs. I wanted to go over and begin strangling them all, one by one, but prudence stepped in.

Prudence was my dog. He had long white hair, as most sheep dogs do, and it dragged through every puddle and dirt pile he made his way through. This dog had particularly bad taste in women. He was always fond of the older types, the ones with fake teeth and hair rollers who wore stockings whenever they made trips to the seven eleven. It was their flesh he liked most of all. Maybe it was because Prudence was old and his senses were far less keen than what they use to be, but he loved to nuzzle and lick the crotch of these old ladies to their delight. It was a dog thing. They understood it. But they loved it. And if it wasn’t entirely inappropriate they would have taken Prudence home and made’em their own.

I pressed the weight, squeezing my will against the bar, pressing the fibers, contracting them together with enough force to pop the blood vessels in my face. When I was finished with the last rep I fell down and collapsed to the ground, grabbing my chest in pain. The hate, don’t go– I yelled– don’t leave me. Surely enough the hate returned and I began to reharness that focus and apply that hate to the weight. This is how strength is born.

You think you know me? You think you’ve got me figured out? Everything you know about me I’ve fed you. Piece by piece. Anything you know about me was hand crafted by yours truly. If there is something you fear or hate or resent or love in me, you can thank me for giving that to you. Do you know why? Because you have no soul, no ability to render reality for what it is. This is why I must feed it to you. Otherwise you would be feeding yourself.

You’re insecurities seep through your pores, and its got a foul stench. You think you can beat me? You think you can stand up to me? I will dominate you in a single tyrannical breath. You think I would have allowed you in my presence if I thought you could beat me? You are a child. You don’t know me anymore than you know yourself. You don’t know an ounce of who I am, a scrap of what I’ve been through. We’ve all been through a lot, I know, same old story. That’s not what I’m talking about. I’m taking about heart, hate, passion, a feeling of substance that you can wrap your figurative arms around, a god damn will. Not an illusion, not a reflection, not a combined refraction of the multitude of people you disingenuously emulate. You don’t have a grasp of who you are. Your insecurities make you pathetic and weak, hollow and empty. You have no hate, no heart. It’s only a sad pathetic desperation that keeps you moving from point A to point B.

You need to grow a pair. You think I’ll steal your friends? You think I’ll fuck your girl friend? Are you afraid of me? Is that what this is about? I will fuck you up. I will rape you. I will knock you out so fucking fast you won’t have time to blink.

You are either with me or against me. There is no middle ground. You either love me or hate me. And I only love those who are capable of loving themselves. I have no time to waste on pathetic excuses for people, depraved of self worth and security, empty carcasses.

You’re insecurities have bled you dry, left you lifeless.

You think you’re fit? Smart? Good looking? It’s a pathetic delusion. You know why? Because you don’t really believe it. If you did, you wouldn’t take such pains to prove your worth, to yourself or others. You wouldn’t demonstrate it beyond living effortlessly according to your values and goals. You would pay no heed to the standards of measuring up. You would be justified by your actions alone which require no justification or explanation apart from the validation of your will.

Familiarity breeds contempt. I suppose that’s why you’ve grown so contemptuous. You’ve grown familiar. But I suppose that’s my fault now, isn’t it. I should have expected that you’d catch on to the same old bullshit I fed you. I’ve never said I was a good master. I don’t look out for those who don’t look out for themselves, that is, those who are always looking out for others, comparing and contrasting their worth to prove to themselves that they have what it takes, that they’re worthy of this or that. They strive for perfection thinking that this flimsy ideal will provide some grace for their tortured soul, a soul they never let see the day, a soul trapped and tormented by sheer self-deprivation, not exposure like other great souls. No. These souls are held captive by insecurity, the irresolute self, the undeciding spirit.

The difference between me and you? You ask. I am bat shit out of my mind, purely organic, wild, dynamite, raw power incarnated into flesh. There is no morality, no good or evil, no standards of fair play. It is simply survival of the fittest where I am pittest against myself, my own worst enemy, and together we always prevail because together we are always stronger than you.

Should you fear me? I am death incarnated, unknown and untested. If you don’t fear me, you must be ready to die. If you do fear me, then you are already dead.


3 thoughts on “Dys-”

  1. Did you write this? I felt like this was the meanest “talkin to” I’ve ever received. It was very therapeutic for me.

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