Shared Writings

The Hand, Cock, And Infinite Rage.


It's 7am. It's a hot sweltering ninety degrees outside.

I'm staring at the ceiling of my bedroom in what is my dilapidated apartment.

All I could do the first time getting up was watch some pornographic videos. The video I started watching involved in what appeared to be a Russian brothel.

A blonde woman speaking Russian wearing a red blouse and black skirt with a white pearl necklace around her neck escorted a fat grotesque looking bald headed Russian man to a room where a young naked blonde woman was sitting on a bed like she knew her purpose for being there.

The escort whom you assumed was a mistress or madam extended her arm into the room where she smiled to the man afterwards closing the door behind her only to never be seen again throughout the entire video.

The grotesque bald fat man undressed himself and immediately gestured that the young prostitute in the hotel room suck his cock. She took a face fucking very brutally all the while swallowing one of his loads in her mouth as semen or cum dripped from her rosy red lips.

The man was saying somthing to himself in Russian laughing as he repeatively slapped her ass making the whole entire absurd spectacle not just sexually erotic but also a comedy.

You think to yourself there is somthing particular to Russian or eastern European porn that makes it rather comedic in the variety of themes that they use. You wonder why other porn directors in other parts of the world weren't catching onto their superb genius.

The Russian man kept fucking her from behind slapping her ass laughing to himself where everytime he did slap her ass she in response only moaned all the more louder. It was like a musical of grunts, growling, and ecstatic moaning.

Back and fourth he would switch from fucking her vagina to her asshole switching repeatively periodically.

I personally just think that he couldn't make up his mind which he liked better.

After he fucked her in the asshole she seemed only too pleased to crawl on all her fours coming up to him afterwards in sucking his cock again the very one that came out of her ass a minute ago prior. Watching you wonder to yourself if the taste of her own asshole was still present on what she was sucking.

Her breasts were firm and so were also her hips. Her stomach and her legs were nice too in that they had a smooth texture.

Her face was also beautiful and adorable too complimenting her blonde hair. I could definately understand his wanting to face fuck her.

There really is no short of appreciation from a woman when she is choking with your cock in her mouth or throat.

As usual the whole time your watching your captivated imagining to yourself being inside the woman that is being desecrated on the screen.

Your watching wishing you yourself was the one partaking in the film where it was your own phallus doing the penetrating.

It was only last night that you jerked yourself off to sleep to a mini porno of some woman getting fucked in a massage parlor where sexual screaming and erotic moaning of the video put you to sleep like some hypnotizing lullaby of a woman shouting with your dick still in your hand.

Then again it makes sense as to why your personal libido is out of control where you can't remember a single day not beating or wanking off.

It's been six miserable years of sexual absence where the sweet nectar or ambrosia of pussy juice is but a distant memory to you.

You feel sexually repressed and forced into a celibate lifestyle not of your own choosing where your alone, miserable, or emotionally unstable where all you have is that damn computer screen right in front of you. Even celibate priests have alter boys. You have nothing and nobody.

You then begin to stare at your hand.

All you have is your own loneliness and shame.

A hand is no simulator for a vag where not even those specialty items at those human depravity stores known as sex shops that capitalize on other people's loneliness will do either.

Masturbation becomes your shame, dishonor, depression, and more importantly your own emasculation as a ongoing reminder of what is also your own powerlessness or social debasement.

You hear about those who speak about the virtues of self control but you think to yourself shortly, at what point does self control become my own prison?

At what point does self control become your own prison of self abandonment?

You have hungers, cravings, instincts, and impulses out of your own control that you need to be fed but are unable to by willing participants.

Eventually you start thinking about raping a woman in real life violently assaulting yourself onto her and more importantly being inside her.

You see the act as the ultimate liberation of your isolation, shame, dishonor, depression, emasculation, powerlessness, and social outcastment.

The act itself becomes your own pure ectasy, liberation, nirvana, and self indulging pleasure.

Your anger in assaulting her becomes your rage in not being able to become loved yourself by a woman willing to do so by her own will.

Your anger stems from the fact that you yourself have been reduced to embrace the desperate act itself.

Somewhere in the sadistic act of sexually assaulting the woman in your imagination as your ravishing her you think of all the women who have rejected you based upon superficial notions of what you have or don't have. You think to yourself of all the times being rejected for being poor, having little status, having very little social power, and for physically being just average looking.

While raping her it becomes even more of a liberating expirience because you think of the tyranny set against you that your rebelling against in the act.

With this in your thoughts there is only the sadistic satisfaction of it all. There is only your own pleasure being acted upon and affirmed.

There is only you feeling alive.

It's A Bourgeois Reality.


Every time you turn on the television there is only the upper middle class and the wealthy social classes reality.

As one flickers through the channels one begins to think that only the upper middle class or wealthy social classes exist when
it concerns their lives, existences, problems, joys, hobbies, celebrations, recreations, vocations, relationships, and so on.

You never hear about the lives or existences of the poor, homeless, downtroddened,marginalized, outcasted, and oppressed.

The only time you ever hear about them is if the upper middle and wealthy social classes come into their lives as heroic
saviors or messiahs in order to built a positive image of themselves neverminding that the same poverty that afflicts the poor
exists because of their own doing. In the end it doesn't matter so long as they can make a virtuous image of themselves to hide behind
where their creation of the poor's poverty goes unquestioned.

Pretty soon everybody that watches the television begin to think to themselves that their lives ought to be molded
into the same thing where if their lives do not match those of the upper social classes on television there must be somthing inherently "wrong"
with themselves.

They think to themselves that they must exist, appear, and have all that those on the television possess.

Soon the real life and fictional characters of the upper social classes on the television become worshipped or fetishized.

Sometimes you will hear about the poor or see images of them as criminals committing the most atrocious of crimes
but neverminding what poverty pushed them to that form of desperation from those who herded and coerced them into it.

Sometimes you will hear about the poor rehabilitated and institutionalized through the wealthy social classes higher education where they
transcend their poverty only to cause more of it onto others within their newer celebrated social class distinction.

The damnation of it all is that those poor of resources, materials, possessions, wealth, and success but wise or intelligent in mind
come to understand the lack of visibility of their own existence in relation.

They have no voice. They have no captivated audience. They have nobody to listen to them.

They have no visibility and therefore they do not exist. Their story, life, and existence is nameless and unknown.

They walk like invisible shadows in the wind. Their lives a dreary one of complete non-existence.

The Wandering Drug Addict In The Street.


One day as I was walking in the middle of summer I noticed a wandering drug addict in the street going up to everybody warning them of mysterious marauders chasing after him everywhere. I looked around and could not see the mysterious marauders that he was speaking of.

He had long black hair and a mustache where he was wearing nothing but his jeans as he was also shirtless.

He wasn't even wearing any shoes as he was barefoot. I think he was a Mexican.

He then came up and approached me. He said to me, "Don't you see those sons of bitches chasing after me?"

I couldn't tell if the man was on crack cocaine, heroin, acid, or LSD.

I didn't know what drugs that he was on other than that he seemed unstable where he also smelled like urine and alcohol.

I thought to myself that he could be armed or dangerous and so I defended myself by coming to the conclusion of getting rid of him by a means of cleverness.

I told him that I did see those mysterious phantoms that were chasing him where I pointed in front of myself telling him that they went in that particular direction.

He then replied, "Really?"

After that remark he began running towards the direction I told him of yelling and shouting various obscenities where as soon as he ran across the street he was hit dead center by a passing car.

His body flipped in the air after hitting the windshield of the approaching car where afterwards he layed bleeding in street as he slowly began to die.

The ambulances never got to him in time where he was rather quickly pronounced deceased.

I learned a valuable lesson that day. Some people run from phantom marauders of their own making or occasionally from that of a overconsuming drug addiction binge.

The Woman On The Bus Raving Madly.


At the bus stop I noticed a woman talking to herself madly. I looked around to see who she was talking to. Nobody was there. She started talking to herself once more yelling along with raving louder and louder.

I wanted to grasp her throat and mouth with my bare hands. I wanted to suffocate her.

I then thought to myself that she must be some sort of nutter. I wondered in amazement if it was a dead husband or a conversation with "God" with whom she was speaking with by herself. To that inquirement I couldn't tell you.

We both got onto the bus. I chose to sat next to her and listen on to her conversation. There was only nonsensical utterances here and there with no coordination worth mentioning. I wondered if I ever made it to her age if I would end up the same way eventually myself.

The bus was getting full. Too full. 37 bodies. Apparently I wasn't the only poor throwaway portion of the populance in the city either. I felt like I was in a cattle trailer where all of us human livestock throwaways were herded up together in taking us to our destinations on route. The route was that of the number 23.

The room was full of tension, anger, despair, and depression with the single raving woman still talking to herself fourty minutes later in the background.

I imagined a angry armed drug addict hobo coming on board with a pistol killing us all with the lone raving woman still talking to herself shouting in the background.

The massacre would make all the front pages or the top television news rooms for weeks on end I'm sure where afer the popularity faded we would all be forgotten and nobody would really care.

The Anarcho Primitivist Chick In Florida.


I once asked a anarcho primitivist girl over the phone that called me one day if she would be willing to bear my wild feral children so that me, her, and the children could from the woods feast upon the flesh of the locals in a cannibalistic frenzy in preying upon them.

She said no. I next then asked her why. She said that she had no intentions of gaining any pregnant belly fat around her hips where she would rather be artificially insiminated.

I then asked, what kinda hell of a anarcho primitivist are you? I asked again, your a naturalist, aren't you? What's the problem? There was only silence afterwards where she hanged up on me seconds later.

My Closet Sex Slave

She was my closet sex slave always there when I needed her where I knew she wouldn't leave me.

I knew she would always be true to me alone for her loyal virtue with me was always guaranteed.

Every time I needed the company of another I would drag her out in bounded chains asking her to feel and touch me while I spoke to her.

Her gentle embrace and the felt of her flesh was always intoxicating especially upon her penetration.

She wasn't much for conversation for she did not speak a word but atleast she listened to me when nobody else would.

At first she screamed alot when we first met but after awhile when all her hope of leaving me faded there was only her silent submission to me.

When I was all done and satisfied with her company spent together I would put her back in the closet for another time.

She was my bounded and gagged closet beauty always true to the end.

The Killing Park

Somewhere in the slums and ghetto of the city there lies a park where all the homeless, deviants, and outcasts gather to die.

It is a park where people gather to die.

It's a place where the broken down masses go to escape from the reality around them through various narcotics, stimulants, and intoxicants.

It is there they wish to escape the world around them and more importantly from themselves in a twisted sad desperation as their final act of rebellion against a world that has turn it's back completely against them.

Like clockwork crowds gather weekly as individuals drop dead like flies on a dung heap as ambulances and police squad cars make their routine procession in the area where it can be seen one countless overdosed lifeless dead body being carried out after the other.

It is a place of complete and total despair of a sort of maddening ectasy that only delivers the final price of death.

It is a place where outcasted people go to give up on living.

At least you're pretty decent at poetry.

Keep at it.

You could go places.

At The Termite Mounds


Human beings are the insects of the universe I've noticed walking through a random city of huge sky scraping termite mounds.

I'm just a individual ant on a ant hill in a world of ants.

What am I saying with all of that? I'm not a individual. I have no individuality. I am nothing at all.

I am merely a male drone within the superorganism of the collective hive complex.

My individuality has been stripped away from me entirely for my life revolves around working with the superorganism of which I'm supposed to give my entire being and existence away to in complete utter surrender.

I am a biological tool, machine, cog, and mechanism.

I exist as nothing else.

Resistance is futile as there is only assimilation to the complete and utter eusociality of this insect living.

There is only conformity and uniformity here with nothing else in between.

There is no seperate altering minds as all heads come to know within the hive that there is only one head and mind that becomes the voice of us all.