5742: The Glorious Drug Of Lust

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I’d like to tell you that I am having no fun. Now, anyway.

I stare at that picture: your exploded hair, your wild eyes, your open, pink mouth, and, with sadness, I realize I am having no fun.

The tracing algorithm indicates you are orbiting a nearby star that I can see in the last moments of dawn as the sun eats up the last of night.  If I had a telescope.  If I  gave a fuck where you pretend to be.

Yes, you are far away on a dim star.

Obviously this is not true because I can see you through the windows covering my compartment.  In fact, you are waving at me right now.  I can see you!  Hello, distraction!  Hello, pure ruin!  Hello, my terror! I am waving back!  Let us pretend tonight! Let us pretend that we ar so far away so you can tear me apart!

You have no idea that I am in on your little joke.  Your admittedly brilliat jab at my failing body and my wobbly convictions.  I’ve been watching you with predator-clarity and rapist-cruelty.  By those terrible terms, I wish you no harm but I wish myself nothing by utmost clarity and unfogged vision.   Sociopaths have that clarity and now I have both that clarity and the self-hatred to temper the whole mess with gallows humor at my own ridiculous desire.  I love blonde skin and open legs but I am not yet a total dog.  I have empires and legacies to secure before I collapse at you knees.  Ruin me. Fine.  That’s what the lawyers are for.

You know what?  I don’t blame you.  I have contempt for disease, too.  I make fun of my thinning hair and mottled face.  So many days I set my own narrative aside only to watch myself, as a needy suitor, piling contempt upon me as I chase suns and planets.  Just for fun.

How do I know?  Because I’ve thought about this.  I’ve planned it.  I’ve filled my near-sleep mind with the glorious drug of rage, lust and revenge until I was soothed into sleep like a milk-filled baby.  I’d split you apart like leftover chicken.


You’re right, as always.

The computer says my blood is functioning well with the white cells waging a lovely, microscopic war on the lurid pollution of my unexamined life.  I feel better.  I will live almost forever, as long as the credits are stable enough to make payments.

So, mostly, I am alone with doctors, drugs and video-images. But the dome-ceiling is still yet decorated with your goggle-eyed, rosy-mouthed image, not intended for anything but self-illumination.  No matter what, my vagrant heart claws its way past my ribs, gasping, seemingly ready to burn all bridges, seemingly ready to violate every sacred oath I was too dumb to deny.

This is what happened:

is color-paint on your chest
is massive destruction
is wings that bomb
is wild distraction
is a failed test
is confusion
is murder
is me


Later on, the Army informed me that we had lost the war and the hospital would be overrun by looters.  Your “star” is nearby.  We will come get you before all the guns fire.  I need you and I’m taking you with me.

After all that,  I am going in to hiding.  I will surround myself with (images of your pants pulled down) as I expand my influence over the invading enemies.   They will surrender dreams to me.

Yeah, there are “true believers” that will resist my dark inventory of favors.

Don’t worry.

I’ve dealt this kind of man before.  He has his price.  I know exactly what the price is and I would be a fool (a hypocrite) not to pay it.  I’m paying it right now.

Text and Images © Andrew Auten – All Rights Reserved