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Exilio
TheRalphRetort
 April 13 2024 at 08:53 pm
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Exilio By The Ralphamale - A Fictional Story I was approached by someone close to Thinkspot and asked to come write here a little bit. I had already considered opening a SubStack, and I still might do that in conjunction with this, but I liked the guy and said yes. Why not, then? I’m in Argentinia, host of Deathwatch, my daily live stream on the internet. It used to air at night, but I started carrying this site called Nozy during the day, and their main man aired in my old slot. So, I just changed the time from afternoon until 10 P.M. EST (fuck the other “correct” acronym..it’s always EST to me). I’ve been stuck there ever since. In a way, it’s helped. I used to have an ensemble of co-hosts for the nighttime run of the show, but they’re all scumbags now. In this sick trade, you have to be ready for a turn at any point in time. Private messages leaked, fake private messages leaked, various other incendiary imagery, sneak attacks from supposed friends, the theft of your child via the courts…it’s sort of a nasty business. The pussy has been pretty good, though. Believe it or not, the pussy was fire in pretty much every case. I only ever truly loved two of the women I ended up bedding throughout this fucking insane bullshit. I’ll leave that up for debate. Not because those bitches give a single fuck, but because it’s funnier that way. I moved down here, to the lovely city of Buenos Aires, with family in-tow. You know, I’m not perfect, but taking someone’s child, leaving while they are out of town, and cutting off any access, knowledge, or photographic evidence of that child is somewhat unsavory. Many people might even call it sadistic. If you hate me online, you would say it’s justice. Or, you might not even know about that salient fact until you read this story. It’s all about the mob and the “accepted lore” at the time. I can remember this woman, Samantha, telling me she didn’t know that she was a real woman, until I had fucked her brains out about 30 times. Sexual chemistry was always off the charts. If we met even now, and there was some drinks and maybe who knows what all else, she would fuck me again. I’ve had her doing every dirty thing you could imagine, and some you wouldn’t even want to. In a way, she was the perfect partner for that era of me because she would do whatever I told her to do. She was already a slut when I met her. We both cheated on our partners to kindle our initial romance. So, I was basically a dick as well. Damn, It was hot, though. I remember the first time we fucked, in a Red Roof Inn off some highway down in the South. She asked about a condom and we both said we were clean and fucked raw right there on the spot, for about six hours. I bought a special bottle of champagne and ordered food. We both lied to our significant others about where we were. The passion was insane. The problem was she was crazy and obviously I must be a crazy motherfucker to even dedicate this to print. She was slutty, yes, but I often wonder just how much of her mind I fucked up. Sam used to tell me that it turned her on to know I fucked other woman. So, I fucked other woman. It seemed like a great set-up, at the time. Looking back on it now, I see it as her self-harming and letting me do those things because she didn’t think she was worth a shit. Subsequently, she revealed some alleged molestation from a family member when she was younger, a cousin. She was also separately when she was sixteen. Looking back now, I see it so clearly. Sam just wanted to be hurt again and again because she thought she wasn’t good enough. I often consider how I pushed her to the wrong side of that instead of the healing side. I could have been the stabilizer and instead I was the chaos agent. Looking back now, I see that all the debauchery wasn’t really worth it. Don’t get me wrong, it was a lot of fun. Fucking a pornstar with your girlfriend, cumming all over said pornstar, and then going to do an interview with the pornstar after you had just been inside her pussy…I mean it was pure rock star shit to me. Still, It put more stress on an already stressful relationship. Deep down, I think we just both wanted to be normal and love each other, but the constant push for more hedonism and debauchery was a constant theme, at least in our early days. The sad fact she never seemed to understand was, I always thought she was good enough. She was often great, actually. I guess some of this may be down to my own communication skills. I grew up romanticizing film and television. I am more of a “big gesture” type of guy. I fuck up or an am asshole for a period, but this Big Trip is supposed to show you that I really love you. In fact, that is how I show love. It doesn’t land, though. You have to be daily about it. Samantha once told me, “The best times with you are better than the best times with anyone else I’ve ever known…but the worst are the worst.” So, it’s not like I’m some innocent motherfucker. We both did drugs, mostly weed (except for her LSD trip revelation of familial molestation), until she eventually quit. We were going to have a son and she decided to get serious about all this health bullshit. I wanted to. Before and after she left me here in solitary exile, I had long stretches of sobriety. The one before we finally broke it off was the hardest. All I wanted was to hear anything back from her. I could see her checking her messages. “Just send me a picture of our child,” I thought. Tell me anything. One word from her could have stopped me from not caring again. When I don’t care, I’m a somewhat reckless and dangerous person. All I wanted was one word. I was sober, I was ready for resolution, good or bad. However, it was refused. Rest is a bit of a blur. Took a bunch of pills. Don’t remember much. Had a run in on acid in some small Mexican town. You just pay a fine here, it’s not too bad. Fucked some pussy. Good pussy, but it’s sort of empty. I’ve kind of come to the point where I think, “What’s the point of even having a bitch?” You can just go buy pussy or at least flirt with it for free. Real woman are seen to me, as I approach the age of 40, as a goddamn fucking headache. Also, if you spend any real time with these whores, as I did with Sam, they always come up in your mind, even if just for a second. Of course, they think about you, too, but it’s not the same. They laugh about how they stole your child, while you think about that time in London where the sunlight was shining just right on their hair when you snapped the photograph. Google Photos had the courtesy to remind you the other day. Then, you think why couldn’t a brick have fallen off and done its work on the bitch then and there. Women seem inherently more evil than men. It’s hard for me to one-hundred percent hate a former domestic partner. It seems a lot easier for them. The female mind seems to take particular joy in trying to humble their ex. If the ex refuses to be humbled, it only motivates them more. Plus, unless you lock these bitches out of everything (you should), they use every single piece of vulnerable information that you’ve ever given them, along with some fake shit on top, to ruin your life. Anyway, long story and that’s a bit of a teaser. I wrote it to tell you I ended up in Argentina making my own way by accident. There was supposed to be a team of motherfuckers making this work. The LSD down here is strong, but that’s not the answer. The answer is, “Trust No Bitch.” If you do have to trust one (you will), minimize all damage possible and leave as little on the record as possible. They’re by far the dirtier species. I’m now sober in one of the biggest party capitals in the world. The fucking Zionists are going to throw us into another war on behalf of Jewish interests. The US election doesn’t even matter. I’ve got about four civil cases in the US courts over silly shit. Kid stolen from me with no access or updates. Who even gives a shit anymore? Let’s just go out fighting. You know what I do have, though? This shitty fucking internet. I have 2024, which promises to be one of the most consequential years of my lifetime. That’s not a bullshit line, this time. It really will be. I’ve got Deathwatch back up off the deathbed and it’s rolling along nicely. I said to someone the other day, who was simping over some bitch who used to suck my dick: “Women are like Toyotas. They come out with a new model every year.” They’re not hard to find. They almost always aren’t special (but always think they are). Some, I assume, are good people, but stressing over some slut is the dumbest thing you can do in life. Which is why I don’t do it…much. You smashed the pussy. Nutted all inside it. Their biggest prize, they gave to you over and over again, with great enthusiasm. I let some bitch in an El Paso strip club suck my dick. I didn’t give you anything, other than some money spent on you, that you weren’t even worth. Whatever, I’m in Argentina.
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To Devour
Dre Carlan
 April 04 2024 at 05:10 am
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To devour—, and willingly allow yourself to become devoured—, completely, is truly a unique experience for us humans indeed. Unique in how the human spirit is unable to bear the weight of such trauma but only once. No matter the degree of self-hatred any mind may potentially reach, none is equipped with the possibility of repeatedly placing itself on a platter for another’s digestion. Like death; it is irreversible. The blessed are spared from ever feeling it at all. We—, who know its face, memorized its hollow sockets where cloud-filled eyes hang in the shadows and can draw their dark swirls from memory—, are forever cursed to feel its warm breath on our napes. Unique in that it isn’t solely to satisfy a gluttonous urge of gorging our spiritual stomachs with another’s soul, but rather, a craving to consume. Utterly and without pause for logic or reasoning, to consume everything. Their deepest dreams, worst nightmares, most highest-held hopes; it all must be swallowed—, no, choked down! Unique in that much like Escher’s Drawing Hands, it isn’t enough to stand in pride while ingesting their very oneness. They themselves must be doing the same in return, wearing an identical smirk of self-gratification that we’ve got permanently plastered upon our own lips. Unique in that we simultaneously become both The Lover and The Loved. And it’s within that exact line of logic where we find our ability to continue sleeping when the sun sets at night. The guilt cancels itself out. We offered up our own bodies for consumption and without hesitation, they eviscerated our layers like lions, one by one, clawing and tearing and ripping us apart, forever digging deeper down until they reached the most hidden compartment of our hearts we hadn’t even known we were hiding under so much soil and dirt. Just like we’d reached theirs. A mutual feast. Unique in how once that specific door is opened, it can never be closed again. The heart won’t allow it. The soul will change its spiritual composition from that day forward, not unlike the drug addict, we are never the same. Our eyes see through a new lens now. It’s a darker shade, it makes the light harder to see, to feel. Harder, but not impossible. We must look more thoroughly for it. Somewhere, it’s still shining down in our direct line of vision, somewhere that’s a bit tougher to see through the newly descended smoke and ash and dense fog, but it’s there. It’s there and if we squint and remember that what it means to be human is both tragic and beautiful, then when we do occasionally re-find it and feel it once more on our skin, its warmth is that much deeper, it carries that much more meaning and purpose. Precisely because we know how much darkness and frigid cold there truly is all around us, waiting. Waiting for the doubt to creep back inside and whisper through the muddled trenches of our memories; “was there ever really any light at all?”
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Concrete Bride: A Reverie
Dre Carlan
 April 06 2024 at 07:53 pm
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Part 1 Back to living in a box. Back to wishing it was different. I hear the call through the airwaves out beyond the clouds in the distance; ‘Find me…’ I see thunderstorms outside my studio window as lightning cracks across the sky. I crash on my bed letting chemicals rewire all parts of my mind as my frontal-lobe explores further. Outside there is so much life—, inside there is only grey ash. I walk her streets at night in ever-search of self-gifted curses, like always. The city becomes my church—, an industrialized nature with permanent smoke gliding across its surface. Her curls cascade down in flowing rivers of taxi cabs and speeding hearses. Her lips part the water and its coastline before swallowing my body’s inner-pulp. My bride’s alive in the electric wires powering our cement sanctuary with trillion-watt bulbs. Through the commotion and constant multi-dimensional regression of self—, I rehear the promise; ‘Find me…’ It flies through the fog like an emotional homing missile. Deep within a dark stare, an inner-spirit slowly points towards me as her eyes whisper, that’s mine. Above an autumn-rainfall’s freshly soaked asphalt shine the peaks of high-rise rooftops projecting an outline of shapes I’ve never seen before—, eclipsing the laws of mathematics; Divine Geometry. She’ll appear like a siren in the seas of forgotten memories; Mnemosyne, reawakened. Throughout the moment; a portrait of future potential by way of rising phoenixes wrapped in Oak Street leather jackets. Sparks will fly off the rails as L-trains thunder down their tracks toward the Loop. Three-inch heels will keep perfect time of our tapered lives through rhythmic-clicks off alleyway-bricks below her stilettoed metronomes. Louder with each step; power sounds of an elegant season will surround us in stereo, ever-guided by the speakers’ bass-driven beats. We’ll enter our dimly-lit kingdoms and take the two tallest thrones with pulled-patent cushions, like always. Lights of fire-glowing lava will branch off in strange sporadic angles through their glass-shaped cages; all restoring life to the smallest parts of the darkly-painted walls with such class-made patience. She’ll sit while looking the room over and silently read its vibe. Part 2 Some dreams I actively seek out in hopes that their hauntings are ever-abstractive and self-implanted deep within the maze of crossed-wire encryptions that maybe—, they might just be real. My chemically-altered lifelong-coma comes with an imagination that remains in a constant state of flux throughout the mixed-media thought-tunnels running on only the highest, if not sharpest—, of stoner frequencies. I gently slide the tip of my finger across the soft edges of her ankles where sole and topside separate for an entire night and not think twice about going any further. I pin her up against the wall by softly biting pierced-earlobes as jeans ease over paralleled-hips in slowed motions before falling to the floor beneath our bare feet below. I am both sinner and saint at once. I feel the cold metal zippers of her open leather jacket repeatedly smack against my chest; the only piece of clothing on either of our bodies as we out-best the breaking of each others’ backs from the Kama Sutraesque-grinding upon the same chair for the past hour plus. Amidst the room; a sensual intuition that turns our two genetic buildups into counter-reactive towers of sexual energy impatiently waits to rip-through by megaphone-amplified moans we’d make certain that the world itself can feel with a diamond’s worth of clarity—, and shine. Dream-wave expanding; Two souls of the same sign—, watching all sides as we hear billions of beautiful gunshots blaze through the night sky marking the start of our week-long royal-wedding event—, it’s official. Her finely stitched bulletproof vest of silken-threaded wires reflects back a past through mastered alchemy of the very Sun’s satin-flowing fire; an ever-beauty bleaching out darkness. Her wreath whispers beginnings of the long-awaited fulfillment under regal soils of a promise stemmed from paralleled-lineages; a potential ever-reaching its markets. Ancestral aims refined through Cupid’s love-arrows, guided by Heavenly Eagles soaring high above in multi-sphered flashes of future ascendence as she nears Her Most Holy Alter & I Mine. “The bride has arrived!,” voices out the gathered loved ones through bouts of loud cheering and commenced celebration as the first gleaming pieces of a mile-long motorcade rolls down in leisured convertible movements accented by thumping sounds of pounding subs coming from out the dozens of duffle bag-sized trunks. Cherry paint-drops sprinkle the ground in Pollock-channeled brushstrokes like the melting lollipops of a humid-conquered Houston Summer from the swerving procession of Princes and Princesses, Kings and Queens—, all sitting atop freshly-coated four-wheeled floats leaving behind midair energy-streams telling the cryptic tales of rival meetings between ivory and burgundy castles through in-rhythm waves set to the chopped and screwed remixes of A$AP and Thugger. Each backseat—, a temporary council of familial aristocracy. Everything; primped and proper. Nothing left to falter. Festivities thrown in the name of revolutionary suicide-pacts by permanent spotlight-stealing martyrdom. The centerpiece is pulled by pure-bred quarter horses. The chariot slowly slides into view. She is not an image of mere perfection nor solely radiates the inner-strength of beatific love; no—, The Bride is Beyond Beatrice. A backdrop of bright blue and red bursts merged through golden lava-filled fireworks light up the dark sky behind the dual-airing dynasties accepting their celestial roles, taking up eternal thrones; setting the stage to a sacred joining of ancient bloodlines with unresolved mysteries that remain in play as the plot continues to thicken. Forever searching for the exact point in our shared dreaming that put into motion the metaphoric split-off and the exact point that it’d re-found itself further down below watching their shapes realign in real time into the symbols of an ever-monarch’s permanent shine; like always—, river; re-merged. Then I wake up.

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