You cannot take any more from me. The others have taken it all away. They have left me with nothing. Empty. Hollow. Right through to the center of my bones. They even sucked me dry of my marrow. This is all I have left to display for my life’s work. You can try. Nothing is all you will find. I am sure you will even try to take nothing from me as well. Something special for you to hold on to. The sweet blistering screams. A dark serenade; existing within the soundscapes of your living imperfections. How I crave, and love to dream of your painful blackness. This has happened before. Déjà vu. On a different vibration. On a different plane. In a different reality. Your kisses are missing the point. The air is filled with your kisses. The loving pain of their sweet annihilation. You will miss my last kiss underneath the midnight eclipse. There never has been any type of moral or motivational support. I do not know what morals would ever mean to you and I. Painting the feeling. With blood and bone. Dreaming the tearing. With sand and razor blades. Killing the willing. Subservient sacrifice. It is all the same to me now. There are too many questions being asked. Oblivion tastes sweeter than an unconscious confusion. This is what you have created life to be for yourself. Another chaos. Another cesspool. Another floor; feeling the delicate caress of your knees dropping to it. A new path you will follow. Better than the old one. A change of scenery. It is the same path you were on before. Leading to your apocalypse. Only the names and the people change. The paths never do. I saw how it came to this. How you strangled the love right out of yourself. Choking it to death. Asphyxiation fetish. There will always be someone to help you with that. Helping hands. If you do not appreciate the sights you have seen. You will never be able to understand the words painted upon it. Nor the bloodshed, which took place to create it. They broke you in two when you were young. Too young for open eyes. Too young for open thighs. Open thighs within a surprise. These types of surprises will get you killed. One way or another way. One cell at a time. One memory at a time. One lifetime at a time. Another way out, while you were looking for another way back in. Your body survived. Partially. Your psyche was shattered beyond repair. There is no mending for a broken soul. Carnality will preserver within the sub-human conditioning. Perverting your systemically impoverished mental capacity. One insertion after insertion at a time. Though, your mind did not make it. Slowly losing your spirit along the way. Along with your other sacred virtues, you desperately wanted nothing to do with. Your eyes see the same sights. A blinding moonlit night, which you will remember. Full moon rituals within romantic residuals. Slowly killing your shapeshifting ideals away from you. This is how collecting morals would eventually look, as they would be safely protected in your hidden treasure chest. A discerning type of forgetfulness, which simply allows a false pregnancy to be birthed into the world. Devouring and deciding the rest of your life for you. The romantic choices, which have been stripped away from your life. I know you have always been able to see me; denying your insightful spectrums. A life without me in it. Another pain you can embellish upon. Another opportunity to bleed yourself dry in. One last slit wrist. One last painful bliss.
Author: ggkalfas
G.G. Kalfas is an American born author and publisher. He is also the noted author of many books, which encompass his experiences within life and death, as these experiences are displayed through the subject matter of his short stories. His intention for writing these books, is to display the importance of philosophy and psychology, as they play an integral part of the development contained within the experience of the human condition. Within his development, G.G. was compelled towards music, poetry, art, philosophy, and psychology. He was also the lead guitarist in a Houston based metal band, as well as the owner of an underground art gallery. He now spends his time writing about the darkness within the human expression, while exploring the hidden knowledge contained within the depths of life, death, and what may or may not exist beyond human consciousness.
Drowning Menstrual Stream
The specific way a broken tongue is gently stroked, is the same way a face of disgrace washes itself clean from its daily routine. The needle will drain itself dry, pushing its illusions away, deep into the soul of your lost control. There is no soul, when a life reaches the point of no return. Sometimes, but only sometimes; I enjoy tearing the veil for those who need it, not wanting it. Forced oblivion, can be a delicious delight. The taste and the smell are never too much, or too soon. A forced penetration. Your apricots wither within the cycle of their drowning menstrual stream. I am fascinated by how quickly your lips turned away from me, as though you have never tasted death before. A stranger within your flesh; seething while striking down the teasing tongue. Salvation within the fleshy salivation. Remembering the bleeding cherries on top of your stomach. I liked how the blood ran down your side; permanently staining your chastity within the threads of your neat, white sheets. The floating fear within your penetrating stare, knowing I would be the permanence within your life; haunting your living and dying days for the rest of your unnatural life. This is what you and I wanted from one another; a deep longing, a deep connection, carving itself into our elastic connective tissue. This is the raw carnality, which permanently binds you and I together. Only time can remember the first caw the crow made, on the first day of our creation. You are the external stranger I have always known, as I have always been a stranger within the external world. I have glimpsed into it a long time ago, as I was curiously witnessing it floating past me on a daily basis. I quickly became blinded; strangling myself, trying to see beyond the vultures inhabiting its lusting domain. This is why I have created my external world internally. No joy or excitement can exist within a world of vultures; constantly ripping and tearing the flesh from bone, simply because they feed off of a lack mentality.
The Meaning of the Spoken Word
Sometimes words can mean nothing to the others. In truth, words mean everything. Words ultimately create life. The others do not understand the meaning of the spoken word. Perhaps this is due to the fact so many words nowadays, have very little meaning. There are also words contained within physical books, which were used at one point to read. Today, many of the others use physical books for aesthetic decoration, not necessarily for the purpose gaining knowledge from the words contained within these writings. These others are New Age aesthetic charlatans, as they pander themselves tirelessly and aimlessly; cultivating their pandering charade within themselves, in order to properly suffocate the masses, they surround themselves amongst. These others enjoy living and breathing on top of one another; feeding off of one another’s energy, just as energetic cannibals would: everlastingly. This is the devolution within a select species, who’s entire design is to systematically annihilate one another through energetic means. These devolving cannibals, propagate and spoon-feed their technologically enhanced ideologies onto one another. Given their aesthetic décor, this also enhances their likeability through acceptance. These devolved aesthetically pleasing energetic cannibals, lack the fundamental capacity to properly articulate their words, thereby using technology as a crutch, and also as their only true means of communication with one another. Some of the others would consider this type of technology as the human evolution, an advancement within the species. When technology hinders the capacity within the human experience, such as; not being able to think for yourself without the use of social media, and not possessing the social skills to articulate words, as most communications have now become electronic, it is easy to see the unification of a fundamental devolution. Lastly, not having the ability to learn or to gather information, without the use of this all-knowing and all-seeing technology, is the global and generational threshold, which we are currently witnessing and experiencing at this very moment in time. Many people will never know the experience of being a human being, as we seem to be living in a backward motion at a high rate of speed; steadily devolving our way back towards the amoeba stage of our human development.
Symbolizing your past Wreckage of Immortality
Time will play tricks on you; half magic, half psychological. Time will make reality as you understand it, seem to mesh itself into a fragmented state of misunderstandings. Time and reality itself, will turn itself into a mirage of memories, which seem to have no purpose, understanding, or meaning. Faces of the past will blend themselves carefully into present time; seeking refuge within the present. These faces will not have purpose within the present time, as they once did within the past. This will be a blunt revealing, to what was once considered charitable and creative. Everything will look, sound, feel, smell, and taste completely different, as it should be different. All that which was known of and familiar within yesterday, will more often seek refuge within today; unfortunately, this refuge will be sought in vain. There will never be any type of refuge for what was known of within yesterday upon today, in present time. The rebirth of a forgotten memory, can sometime be considered a dangerous practice. If a forgotten memory serves no purpose within present time; what would be the benefit of remembering this forgotten muse? The mind has released this past content to the forgotten realms within itself; reliving a dead memory within present time serves only the forgotten past. The voices change, the looks change, yet the mannerisms still remain intact; an ode, which lingers upon the tips of the lips and the tongue. When looking into the eyes of the past, within present time; it is easy to see for yourself how you never belonged there to begin with. A resurrection from your past may appear within your life every now and then, but it is important for you to see it for what it truly is: a suction backwards out of present time. Resurrecting and reliving life through the death of dead memories, will send you backwards through your evolution. It is a quasi-near-death experience, while witnessing the devolved past, materialize right before your eyes. The past belongs where it currently resides, just as you belong where you currently reside. Your present time will eventually become a memory within your past; another distant, and fragmented part of your being and your reality. Can you truly find any type of veneration when looking into the past from present time? What is it about looking back upon the past, which will make you feel good about yourself in present time? What is it exactly you think you may have conquered? The past no longer exists within your reality, within your present time. There will never be any type of solace, sanctuary, validation, or relief, when living within, or looking back upon, the distant remnants of your past. If there is no peace within your mind in present time, you will definitely not be able to find any within your past. Within your present life, there is only enough room for what you take the time to make room for. If you make room for something, someone, or a distant dead memory, which does not help you within present time; you will send present time back into the past, to relive the forgotten and damaged life you once lived. This is a wound you are keeping fresh. A trophy of pain, which you gloriously adorn; symbolizing your past wreckage of immortality. Your favorite fashion accessory. It is perfect for any occasion, and will go great with any outfit. You can even wear it after Labor Day. I will not tell you to take care of yourself, as you have now been released from my life. Your intentions were not to nourish yourself within your present time, but to harvest more of the damaged past you crave and long for.
Life has a way of Mangling your Thoughts
Empty promises, are not as empty as we sometimes think them to be. Our empty and broken promises, are filled with the lies and the deceits of our wreaked pasts, and sometimes our earnestly diseased futures. It becomes an easy habit to maintain, this giving away of empty promises and empty actions towards life. It can sometimes become a commodity with monetary value. There is a reward for handing out empty promises; this is probably the reasoning as to why it has become so easy to do so. It is not difficult at all, as the others ears are awaiting the golden words of deceit and fruitfulness; waiting to eat of the diseased words to fulfill their hearty appetites. The one chance you had to get away from it all, the chance was blatantly ignored without hesitation; thinking it would not be as bad as they said it would be. Well, how do you feel knowing the reality of where you are now, and what you have become because of it? Life has a way of mangling your thoughts, and your inside up to the point of becoming unrecognizable. Most of the time when this happens, you will be able to hear the bones within your chest cracking, then snapping in two. This is not an easy bone to swallow now; is it? Most bones usually are not, as you will have to properly snap them in half, in order to suck the marrow out.
Every Type of Death has an Origin of Recognition
Suffer to remain alive. A blissful decent through, and into your rotted life of inhumanity. Striving towards carcinogenic thought processes; devouring wholly and wide. Deepening all you have ever thought you have known. One more dip into the death pit. Slipping back inside yourself from underneath. Dying memories submerged underneath and around your feet. The hypnotizing stench of the buried dead you are standing over. A deeper translation; penetrating what you have always wanted to release. The thickening pale stench; permeating profusely through your nostrils. A resistance to the translation; suffocating you from within its putrid depths. These were your own words; your own bleakness manifested. A faint recognition of the bleak origin you were birthed from and into. Every type of death has an origin of recognition. Your face within the constellations of the blackened night sky. Contorting within a black hole; no one else will ever see within your eyes, but they will always get sucked into you through derangement. The midnight death rattles a baby plays with. Movement of the eternal dance through your eye’s origin. A black hole no one will ever see or recognize ever again.
G.G. Kalfas 