My post, my thoughts, my actions, they are for me these days. They are not for, about, or because of anyone else. They are mine, and I can share them, hold them, change them, any way I want. I don’t care if anyone feels hurt, or upset, or angry or joyful, or comforted, or any other emotion in regards to me. I no longer have the space in my heart to care about anyone that has treated me poorly in the past. I deserve better, and I am better.
It’s finding out that your fiancé is fucking the boy he lied to you about. The brother.
You wonder how many times your mans dick has been inside his hole.
You wonder how raw it’s been and if you are walking around with some unknown infection inside of you. Wonder if the boys know what’s been inside of them.
Knowing now you could have trusted your heart and instincts in the past enough to not be in this position of anxiety today.
Queer Poly faggot brotherhood realness….I just sneezed…it might be that dreaded disease. Asking the fiancé is not an option you wish to pursue. Knowing that he is no longer yours, more comfortably placed in the youthful ignorance of boys that cum below. Besides, how could I trust his words? Even on something as important as this, I doubt his integrity.
The blue cowboy rode in on the back of a whore. Barebacking he broke his back.
He fucked up when he lost his innocence. Gave into the world and stopped caring about his world. The people he called angels were in fact demons. He himself and I are demons and thats okay. Right?
Are you fucking kidding me? Did you really kill the cowboy? How do you kill a cowboy? Tie him to a bed and fuck him till he bleeds to death then keep fucking him till rigor mortis sets in. Cut up his horse and cook it over an open fire. Thats the only way to do the job right.
But cowboys always come back. Thats why they have spurs and lassos. Hook in and hang in there dead cowboy. Your life isn’t over yet, just on hold for a little while. It’s time for a new ruling power. Demons will be angels again the way the monkey we call God intended it to be. All will be right in the land of inflatable faggots.
I want to say something but shame prevents me
yet if you had desire for good or beautiful things
and your tongue were not concocting some evil to say,
shame would not hold down your eyes
but rather you would speak about what is just
Friday May 3, 2013 10:22pm
The coyotes and the foxes, and the other four legged beings are on the prowl tonight.
The dogs bark, sounding their warnings.
Capture the fag
I am the fag
Am I that fag? Is he that fag?
Which leg is the fag leg?
My beautiful girl, the bitch that walks beside me, she sits, listening and learning the annoying ways of her kind that surround. I learn from her, yet again, the story of patience. The learning and the growth to be a better being that can only come of that patience.
These things, the four legged and the two legged and the me and the spirits….they search tonight, no hunt, seeking the source of the smell of death imbibed in the air. The corpse that rots in the woods.
Am I that death?
Did I bring about that death?
I proclaimed “I am a witch!” today. Out loud, head raised to the heavens as the innocence of a four year old girl contemplated the difference between good witch bad witch. Stirring her cauldron of spells made from dust and dirt and rocks in a hole dug by a four legged walks beside.
I am the witch, that prays the four legged find the corpse. I am the witch, the faggot, the brother, the lover, the man that prays the devouring of the corpse brings comfort to the guts of those in need, release to those in pain and resolution to things unresolved.
The moon rises. The creek gently flows in the south cooling my Piscean heart. Dogs continue to bark to the north. Red tail, or perhaps it’s owl, sits somewhere in the east, waiting to communicate with me again. And to the West…my heart…my emotions…..my being….things grow in abundance and my prayers are set to bed in comfort and confidence of prosperity of things to come.
And the photo I want to include with this text does not exist. Things of the heart can not be given justice with photos.