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Halloween is coming: Time for RolePlaying

Posted 8 October 2002, 5.36 pm by Shaggy

This piece is an entity, and must be read entirely in order to fully reach the power that I hope it has. It was brought on by a deconstructionalist theory of supplementation, in which binary oppositions are reversed, thus making the negative more privileged than positive, darkness more valued than light. Thus, I embrace my negative, evil, dark, sinister appetencies, and allowing them their perspective.

I stare down at them, for they are under my feet. They are lost, cold to me as if they were nothing more than an illusion. What does it matter that they fall? What does it matter that I rule over them?

Can it not be said that they are at my control, and thus subject to my temperament, for better or worse? My conditions are vague, but strict. I will accept no power unless it is absolute, and this I enforce with an iron fist. I am not worried about an uproar, for the commoners are nothing to me.

What does it mean, when they say that I am not a proper ruler? What does it mean to me when those underneath me say they have not enough food, or not enough drink? They believe in me as a ruler, and yet they doubt my ways. Is that any way to treat a ruler? They should be content underneath my boot, for it is a glorious position. It is better to be under my feet, under my control, than to be an enemy, which can fall at my fancy. Is it up to me, then, to see that my friends are fed? I do not believe so. In fact, I would rather worry about my enemies, of their fancy. It worries me more when an enemy wants my head, for this is everlasting. However, it is not everlasting when a friend wishes my attention, for fleeting is the attention of the human kind. Rather, I take pleasure not in the pleasures of others but of my personal gain.

I am a tyrant, and I admit it to any who wish to listen. The world is created on the backs of the weak; this is the manner in which the Wheel of Destiny conducts itself, for fleeting is the will of power. Just when man has his head above water, just when things are beginning to take form and to prosper toward the common pride, something explodes in fire, disrupting what has taken centuries to build. The sweat of man, along with his slaves, is as delicate as a flower; have mercy on the fellow who crushes this sweet thing underneath his cleats, for he is on the path to something great.

Something terrible is in my mind, and I admit that I cannot control it, for it controls me. I am the monster that I admit myself to be, I am the creature that watches as his enemy sleeps, waiting for a chance to strike and to taste of blood. I am ambitious; I am greedy. I am that which makes the populace frown in disgust, and I am proud. I leave a trail of blood in my wake, and I enjoy it profusely. This is my destiny, to destroy and to cherish the blood of the whore.

I lift my friends above my eyes, so that they may see my greatness. I cherish their power as they are above me, I cherish the pain that they relish as they step on me and crush me, and I delight in bringing them down, crashing. It makes them cry, and I laugh.

I am horror, and am distinguished from the rest of the world by the fact that I am not afraid to shed blood, mine or otherwise. I hold this within my fingertips, it is not wasted as I take each drop with pain and suffering. My hands are blistered, my heart is frail and broken, and I shed my wounded.

I cry, so that others might laugh at me. It aggravates me, and this is an emotion that I decidedly enjoy. My teeth clenched, my heart throbbing against my rib cage, and I am ecstatic in it all. To be honest, I would not have anything other than confrontation, for it turns on the inner truth. Conflict and opposition are defined in me and define me, for it is the negative that I enjoy and conquer.

Disdain is the word of the day. It rolls off the tongue like blood, sweat, and tears. I speak it with love, and it enjoys me.

I am negative and positive, alpha and omega. I am both brutal and kind, and my wrath can be exquisite in its flames. My limbs are heavy and thick, my teeth are sharpened to a point, and I quiver with it all. I am powerful, I am the phoenix that will lift itself from the burning ashes, ashes that are thrown unto the bonfire of love and passion. I am terrible and loving, and I bring my followers to tears with my power and beauty.

I am rich in blood; indeed, it overflows and drips from my ears. I feel the world slip inside me, and I am terrible.

As I place my head on the pillow, my cathartic ramblings still hold venom at the tip of my tongue. My eyes are still filled with tears with my frustration, and the tiny crescents of blood on my palm begin to burn. I have shed something terrible, I feel it dying as it is brought into the open. I feel hatred, as I am only human. I do not pretend as if I am some benevolent Christ, only capable of love and healing. I am tainted, and I am original sin. To deny oneself is a great sin indeed, and I do not enjoy lying. So, though these words be powerful even stretched out of context (as they are by default), the imagery presented is often brought to my mind when I cannot take my anger at the world any more. I do not pretend like I enjoy the murder-porn that the daily news has turned into (or perhaps always was). I have to have some escape, or I fear I will go mad with the injustice that this world presents itself, when you dig into it. Though I attempt to make the best out of who I am, to help and heal those that I may, I am not perfect by any respect. I believe there is only two perfect creatures, one human and the other surreal. I love my girlfriend so much that her faults are not seen by me, for she is faultless in my eyes. There is an entity, some call it Truth others God others still call it many names, too numerous to contain herein. This is the only other perfect.

I am purged of Satan. He is now trapped in the words above this explanation, and I can destroy him. He is channeled through my anger, he exists in my wounds. I can now print the beast out and tear him up, or consume him. He is my slave, subject to my will.

He is out in the open, in the eyes of God, and subject to the warrior angels, who protect us everyday. Now that the devil is out of me, I can sleep.

on 9 October 2002, 10.02 pm
Well, have I really gotten that bad at writing as to not warrant a comment?

Or am I that good?

Either way, speak up people. I'd rather the critic who said my work is cheesy than no critic at all!

on 10 October 2002, 8.04 am
It's good dude, very good. Some pieces I guess just "are" rather than existing as discussion points.

on 10 October 2002, 3.08 pm
Well, fuckit, i dont think i'll bother now that the benchmark has been set so high....

on 11 October 2002, 6.46 am
Shaggy, I can never comment on your stuff. It's so ... so..... fuck. So fucking amazing.

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This is again from the 'Faces of Death' cycle. In this piece, the mottled effect was produced by flicking turpentine at the image once it was smeared into the ink.

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80s candy bars were pretty good

only because i traded it for a candy bar in the 80's.

lol we all know you don't have a soul ghoti

my soul for some carbs...

But of course!

Yo ! Does this work ?


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