My Own De-Vices
Taking out the garbage, removing a splinter. This is what I am referring to, or should it be deferring to. Something like that anyway. It is all about trimming away the unacceptable portions and hoping that what remains is still considered usable. Hoping with something as remote as fearless hope that what remains is recognizable. That when you have cut away the infectious parts, the remaining parts will suffice to carry the weight that must carry on to perform this same ritual over and over again. All you have left is what is socially acceptable, but you have to ask yourself is it personally livable. When you finally have conformed to the current trend in what is norm, is there anything left that was once what you were.
Sometimes you must break it down to fix it properly. A concept I am certain is completely askew to the common belief. Don’t fix what is not broken, the old timers say. Broken is a matter of perspective is what I say. More often than not, that which appears to be perfectly normal may very well be quite abnormal below the immediate surface. Believe me I know, I see it everywhere I go. Little girls with picture perfect lives, unaware at how broken they are, or will be. And men who think they know what’s right, what is god awful, how could they know, looking at the world with their self-righteous minds. No one knows, maybe not even I, but at least I try to see, at least I try.
Ah, but I get ahead of myself, now don’t I. Way out ahead of where the story begins. Oh so long ago, before there were so many moral men. Before there were children with fearless tales to occupy their empty minds. I remember a time when all there was, was truth. No obscured lies to placate the ever-present fears. No mystical or mythical tales to displace the reality that was too hard to swallow. No sugar to coat the truth that lay there before you. Just the fact that for the most part what was acceptable was far from what was considered right.
Children, hah, they know nothing of fear in these days of electronic whimsy. A rare exception now-a-days when one goes missing. Oh, sure quite a few might run off after they were persuaded by who knows what. Still it is the fewer yet that ends out finding the truth, about men, about themselves, about anything. When one does discover the truth hiding in the deepest of shadows, they are forgotten quickly; least they serve as a good example. Predators, bah, these wasteful men, leaving such ugly messes behind. Have they no sense of taste, no artistic flair, no compassion for the ritual, have they no distinction of wrong or right. Never leave to a man that which is best suited to the flair and function of a woman.
I am sorry now, that I lead you on so. Perhaps I should have come right out and explained myself, but then again that is how a man would have presented himself. All full of toothsome bravado, and with absolutely no bite.
Oh, I read the papers now and then, and I see somewhere that some poor useless slob has made a mess of things, and caused a stir in the minute portion of his little world. Sure they are on the television and all over the news. A few might even be remembered for a short century or two. Ah but a master of her craft will never be known. The only traces will be the pattern that lingers, far too scattered for the average man to follow. And what of a man, they serve so little purpose. They hardly last more than a week, at best maybe two. Ah, but a girl, of perhaps 12 or 14, now they can linger in beautiful condition for months, sometimes even a year. And the pain and suffering they can easily endure. Yes, she can withstand great lengths of torture with the sweetest of screams, not some whimpering compliance like a man when he’s beaten. I will give the spirit of a man some credit. If given some rope, and a little to hang himself with, he can contemplate the end for some time, never admitting the evident at least for a short while. Perhaps there is something in the girls that says, you must reserve yourself, that someone will rescue you from this terminal hell. Maybe that is why they have such sweet juices, and why they will fight death as long and as well as do. The adrenalin is what really pumps up the blood. That and endorphins, oh like the sweetest of liquor to be sipped slowly from a silver cup. Yet the harder it is to raise these values, there is the challenge of a woman who is aware of her situation. A man, hah, he is a kitten, parade and pounce on him, touch him, let him have his moment of glory. And a brief moment it usually is.
Most men I don’t even have to tether, just lick my lips, and they are begging for me to let them fill my empty cavity with their useless seed, while I slowly drain them of their erotically charged blood.
I go now, yes, far too much, for what I meant to say. Where was I, oh yes, about hiding in plain site? That is what we were supposed to do, take our cover in the folds of ordinary existence. Some did, some are just plain waiting in the darkness, waiting, for that unsuspecting perfect little girl.
Taking out the garbage, removing a splinter. This is what I am referring to, or should it be deferring to. Something like that anyway. It is all about trimming away the unacceptable portions and hoping that what remains is still considered usable. Hoping with something as remote as fearless hope that what remains is recognizable. That when you have cut away the infectious parts, the remaining parts will suffice to carry the weight that must carry on to perform this same ritual over and over again. All you have left is what is socially acceptable, but you have to ask yourself is it personally livable. When you finally have conformed to the current trend in what is norm, is there anything left that was once what you were.
Sometimes you must break it down to fix it properly. A concept I am certain is completely askew to the common belief. Don’t fix what is not broken, the old timers say. Broken is a matter of perspective is what I say. More often than not, that which appears to be perfectly normal may very well be quite abnormal below the immediate surface. Believe me I know, I see it everywhere I go. Little girls with picture perfect lives, unaware at how broken they are, or will be. And men who think they know what’s right, what is god awful, how could they know, looking at the world with their self-righteous minds. No one knows, maybe not even I, but at least I try to see, at least I try.
Ah, but I get ahead of myself, now don’t I. Way out ahead of where the story begins. Oh so long ago, before there were so many moral men. Before there were children with fearless tales to occupy their empty minds. I remember a time when all there was, was truth. No obscured lies to placate the ever-present fears. No mystical or mythical tales to displace the reality that was too hard to swallow. No sugar to coat the truth that lay there before you. Just the fact that for the most part what was acceptable was far from what was considered right.
Children, hah, they know nothing of fear in these days of electronic whimsy. A rare exception now-a-days when one goes missing. Oh, sure quite a few might run off after they were persuaded by who knows what. Still it is the fewer yet that ends out finding the truth, about men, about themselves, about anything. When one does discover the truth hiding in the deepest of shadows, they are forgotten quickly; least they serve as a good example. Predators, bah, these wasteful men, leaving such ugly messes behind. Have they no sense of taste, no artistic flair, no compassion for the ritual, have they no distinction of wrong or right. Never leave to a man that which is best suited to the flair and function of a woman.
I am sorry now, that I lead you on so. Perhaps I should have come right out and explained myself, but then again that is how a man would have presented himself. All full of toothsome bravado, and with absolutely no bite.
Oh, I read the papers now and then, and I see somewhere that some poor useless slob has made a mess of things, and caused a stir in the minute portion of his little world. Sure they are on the television and all over the news. A few might even be remembered for a short century or two. Ah but a master of her craft will never be known. The only traces will be the pattern that lingers, far too scattered for the average man to follow. And what of a man, they serve so little purpose. They hardly last more than a week, at best maybe two. Ah, but a girl, of perhaps 12 or 14, now they can linger in beautiful condition for months, sometimes even a year. And the pain and suffering they can easily endure. Yes, she can withstand great lengths of torture with the sweetest of screams, not some whimpering compliance like a man when he’s beaten. I will give the spirit of a man some credit. If given some rope, and a little to hang himself with, he can contemplate the end for some time, never admitting the evident at least for a short while. Perhaps there is something in the girls that says, you must reserve yourself, that someone will rescue you from this terminal hell. Maybe that is why they have such sweet juices, and why they will fight death as long and as well as do. The adrenalin is what really pumps up the blood. That and endorphins, oh like the sweetest of liquor to be sipped slowly from a silver cup. Yet the harder it is to raise these values, there is the challenge of a woman who is aware of her situation. A man, hah, he is a kitten, parade and pounce on him, touch him, let him have his moment of glory. And a brief moment it usually is.
Most men I don’t even have to tether, just lick my lips, and they are begging for me to let them fill my empty cavity with their useless seed, while I slowly drain them of their erotically charged blood.
I go now, yes, far too much, for what I meant to say. Where was I, oh yes, about hiding in plain site? That is what we were supposed to do, take our cover in the folds of ordinary existence. Some did, some are just plain waiting in the darkness, waiting, for that unsuspecting perfect little girl.
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