Dr. Dialogue’s blog

An attack turned compliment.

P-10:39:12 PM): you're not trying to do or be anything. you're just
going with the flow (in general)

P-(10:45:43 PM): do u know what you're supposed to say that? nothing.
other people, something. but you, nothing. Its hard for me to expect nothing of my
friends but I guess you did the impossible. i expect nothing of you

Rape these, I hate them:

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

    Her cunt squirmed in discomfort while her asshole tightened in anxiety. The two men acting as boys sat there, dirt covered faces, swallowed by feces, high on their own sociopathic tendencies; or meth.
    Not a word was exchanged. The two sat across from the one in the room so cramped a fly would try fucking the buzz of the fluorescent lighting, disillusioned and confused thinking it were the queens own supple breast.
    He licked his lips, staring directly at her, sniffing the air for her now non-existent musk. She forced herself to stare in the opposite direction, clutching her bag and wincing at every movement she caught in the most minuscule corner of her eye.
    The other began to shift. he slowly moved his hand down his pants, staring directly at her, mouth watering and gaping in sinister delight. Lower and lower he went until he clutched something warm, soft, and ready. And then he removed his hand completely.
     "Had to adjust something." he said slowly, making sure to put enough emphasis on his tongue movements.
       Her thoughts raced to her mother and father, pearly white teeth, pearly white picket fence, dog of Aryan descent, her cousin Geoffry who died not too long ago, her boyfriend in boot camp, how he trained so hard, how it got so hard, how she got so hot being fucked on the kitchen counter, how he...
       "Oh god," she uttered silently. Her face was well past a light blush and she began to cry grabbing the rest of her stuff while running out of the musk filled room.
       "Thank God".
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mile 50
Whistle. Whistle. Whistle. The wind won't stop whistline'n. Her voice sounds so sweet with that deadly pierce; sweet enough to kick in.
    His numbers won't stop and she, she. She sits serenely secretly yearning for something none of us could ever have while I sit in loving dirt blasted by such late heat.
    Drown out the dick measuring contests and the mid becomes human. Do anything period and the back will erupt in a riot of sleeping giants.
    These are my last days on earth. Mile 46.
   
    My blue sky stare back at me with more spite. Please.
  
    Mile 20 and the heat rises from our smelted graves. Welcome to the heart land.

    Home has never felt so close before.

---------------------------------------------------------------------
Who the fuck decided I should be a tea pot?
"Never was this fate destined for me" she whispered in my ear

Proof: 86,
Jack don't leave us now,
we feel no where closer to home.

Purge
  me
    once more
Her teething and groaning

Tear and bite
rip limb from limb
make them fight
but never can
I win
but where did we begin?
But where did we begin?
Did we ever begin?
----------------------------------------------------------------------

Hello again friend
Do we find ourselves atop
blue hued mountains once
again? Plummet from summit to summit, will you ever reach that
blissful peace? We've had one million years with another 45 to go,
30 to bother watching it all go.

Some day we'll stand eye to eye in wonder of which will die,
Forgotten hills and mounds of ephemeral love or
our overly unnecessary complexities; which seems to kill faster?
------------------------------------------------------------------------

I'm not going to
let myself die in your words
such scorn is too good even for you
such scorn is too sweet only for two
towels strung across bloodied floors
look here at birth and breath in its wonder
another it for another divide
and yet no less division from the divine.
------------------------------------------------------------------------

Creeping
   creeping
    creeping our way
a time has come
    Now sweep it away
We're creeping
    creeping
          creeping our way
eye lids burnt by dawns of new days

Armageddon came for me
    made no attempt to stay
Armageddon came for me
    with out distinguished way
Armageddon came for me
    to turn me to its ways
So descend down upon me
and breath in all that I cannot say.

Lungs poised and ready
    There will be no end.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------

We hold these words
the epitome of our world
   
    *[I]
    [don't like]
    [being about this]
I never wanted to be here
    [I]
    [don't like]
    [hearing about this]
Never wanted the pie
Never wanted it like this
    Where am I
    Where am I*

Where will I go,
when it's these words we hold.
Escape meant everything
till we hit the bottom of the sea
the epitome of our world
is the cost of our hearts
so come knock me about
for the deferment of your soul
and live through and about
with disillusions of being whole

*probably getting rid of this.

Lights twitch but aren't there. There's only a humming
    My head cracked open and I didn't quite understand what was going on. It seemed that the
voice and the pain came one after the other and the other before the first, so were the two
the same?
    I see yet another object move. I move. It moves inside me, rattling and shaking.
    Will it ever end?
    When did it begin again? When you think something is through and reality again
settled, well, things get fucked again. Shaken like a maelstrom of vicious white blood cells
defecting against their pink host, devouring like a lion atop a gazelle, trying its best to
run away from its feline servient fate.

    How long has it been since I wanted that monstrous turn around. Wait, was it want
or prediction?
    I cowered in fear when the time came and that revolution of non-existent doors flew
on with out me. "You don't actually want freedom, you just use it as justification for your
actions. You'll fight on for freedom and trap yourself in your own bondage".
    How idealistic. He speaks of my lively hood so carousely. Doubting my past actions
isn't guaranteed, only blind subjection.
    But him, he speaks a degree of sense. "You're as free as you prescribe yourself
to be." So then the other one, he only traps himself even more so? But isn't this in itself
a trap?
    So it was a trap all along? The desert teachings, did they have a point? The rich
man suffered, and the poor man suffered, and all women suffered, but most prominent, all
of man suffered for none is greater than the power that is almighty god. Am I continuing to
believe myself more than a god then?
    All things will suffer, but for what reasons? "This isn't life" says day after day.
This suffering isn't life. Is he right? He has to be... for what 'cause is he suffering?

    Why must I ask myself "for what reason am I bleeding?" I cannot begin to remember
the cause nor effect of my bleeding. It feels like crimson tears will fall soon from the
corners of these decrepit eyes. I want no washing away of any pain, but a message for those
in line, foot-print by foot-print.
    
    I've been floating now, for all too long, yet not long enough; but will I finally
choose to touch ground? How will I choose to do so? I want nothing, and through nothing
you'll give me everything.
     I honestly tried to touch down. Was I not ready for the ground or the ground not
ready for my I? My ego reveals itself once more and I am conscious.

cold winter days plauge my house
as butterflies hold answers once clouded
by floating streams of life
In the general history of our once
numerous collectives roll and tumble
In a city of ever dying stars.

Lay in my bed of arms welcoming and warm
decay spreading about like a cancerous sore
feet trip over one and another
Chance was all he seemed to ever have.

Why was it all in such a downward spiral
nausea would be the worst to deal
to the innocents and watch their pockets empty
hearts on their cliches and
souls laid to rest under the hundreds and thousands of color coded decisions.

    It had been a while since I last saw my reflection staring back at me in a bus window. Something about the bus windows, setting your persona in a moving environment, a parallel plane almost, and watching it, sets such a different setting. I stared deeper and deeper into those weary eyes and, as is the recent trend, saw something that didn't disturb me. A whole. For years I cowered in fear at my own reflection; it never seemed to be the person I felt in me. I looked past it.
    A chandelier. Fresh walls. No marks, no blood, no scars. Chairs. Light, oh how light filled the room. Living space. I looked into a box and for the first time in four years thought to myself "living space". But see they've got their day light dragons, their own asbestos, their own crust. Living space?

I forgot what I was going to say,

          it would've been beautiful.

Good-bye.

"Five years and six seconds had passed before anyone knew. But what's knowing when there is no know? Or when the no is known? Was consent ever really the issue at hand? Or was his hand the issue once planned?"

I'm going to write the next great Barfly

NOW WHOS THE FOOL!
WHO
WHO
I AM THE KING ONCE FALLEN
NOW RISEN EIGHTS BY NINES
AND RAVEN WING PIES WILL DO ALL THEY CAN
BUT STOPPING ME IN THIS SEA OF TEA WILL DO NO MORE
THAN ENTRANCE THOSE WHO DANCE FOR COIN
AND GRATIFICATION LEAD US NO WHERE CLOSER TO OUR DESTINATION!

    Vast sea of me she screamed with my hands tightening around her throat. Despite it all, I couldn't kill her. It wasn't that I didn't have the heart; she wouldn't die! What do you do when you've done everything up to killing your problems away and even that doesn't work?
    "Oh sweet heart" he said to me, "you don't know it but you're like a son to me". So what am I to do now? Would you let your son lay waste to himself as he wasted himself with can after sour can of ether? There was a time where nobility actually lay in words; now it's just words laying out nobility. What is a poor boy to do when the worlds pretense moves?
    But see, maybe it isn't the world I think to myself in dimmed silence. Dark? No. Confused.
    What ever happened to the king and his eights and nines and thousands of wives? Crusades. Wave after wave after wave after wave of crusades. The king was no gilded hero, no working  underdog, no champion of the universe. The king was.
    And now I plague myself as to what is? How do you define life if you cannot define truth? The process of truth is a tricky one. It all depends on validation. Is what they said valid? Is that assumption valid? Of course one (wo)man alone will never be valid. So who determines who and what is valid?
    And so killing my problem has proven not to be the solution; by worldly standards I need to find someone to validate a validation for it's very own validation. What will that get done?
    You've made perception a joke.

See there were these trees. These trees made a forest. The forest always knew of the outside. The outside came and went as it pleased. The trees believed the outside to provide for them; believed they gave them worldly opportunities to expand and become deeper rooted. Now the forest and outside existed for hundreds of thousands of years with out ever meeting each other. And then the day came where the edges of the forest and the outside came face to face. They lived, harmoniously, together; or so the trees though. Hundreds of years had passed and the trees never once questioned the outside, coming and going as it pleased. Never would the trees have guessed that the outside was fire proofing them. The trees and the outside grew together, becoming seemingly conjoined. The trees began to believe that they would not exist with out the outside, and the outside still believed that they could exist no matter what. One day, the trees began to notice that their numbers were becoming exhausted, and so they began to bicker. Birch against oak, tall against short, fern against bush; all green became mean. And so the trees killed. The killed brother and sister, mother and father. Friend became foe and foe became perpetual. And the outside grew stronger, and harder, and even more invisible. There was no song of unrest in the forest to be sung, no sea of green to be made, no chime of leaf upon leaf moving in the wind in peaceful harmony. No. There was only fire proofing.

Notes written on blank sheeted walls
Falling down from inside out
side bleeding like armageddon
Cleansing on its way
down down down we will go
Means fleeting frankly
i don't care for green
Top hats litter our streets
belong not to the walking feet
Both bare and cold
we want our show
Me a way to create gold
rings shackle and defeat
Notes written on the blank sheet.

See, we have a problem. You love dominating, and I love dominating. The truth is, it isn't working out. I want to dominate, I want the power; that power of security and safety in which you wish to secure for yourself. Your means and reasons are different though; you wish to dominate to gain, I wish to dominate to live and love. Sometimes, when you stand on top of my back and beat me with your ambiguous mask on, I feel like you're not doing it because you want to share the moment with me... it feels like you're doing it simply for you. And when I tie you up and spank you bloody, you look at me in foul disgust at the affection I show for what we have. We had ten agreements once; good sound solid agreements that would allow us both to beat each other with love; to live in our own chains and love each other for them. But it seems that while the 10 turns into 15 turning to 20 turning to 27, we simply grow more apart and develop more distrust. I tried baby, I really did, I tried loving you for what you promised me hoping that you would some day quit looking out the window while you beat me, distracted by the profits of spreading our self-abusive love to others... but see I'm running out of the love. I'm not feeling it anymore. The truth is, it's over. Those 10 hopefull rules we made, they just don't apply to me anymore do they? You've stopped giving, and now you're taking. It used to be that the pain given through torture was our validation; now it's merely the act of torture in which you are looking to engage in. I loved you sweetie, long long ago, when the latex was stronger and the future kink uncertain, in the good, reasuring "everything is going to be 'effin great" kind of way... but that's gone. Honey, it's over; I'm just waiting for you to realize and move on.