Putrefaction.

People never discuss the methods of suicide, well hardly. Be it hanging, jumping, shooting, intoxication, slitting or such as, but people hardly ever hear the term autoerotic asphyxia.

When Ivan was 16, he was surfing the internet for extreme pornography sites, he developed a paraphilic mind where he would imagine girls and guys of every form you could ever imagine defaecate and urinate on him while sticking carrots up his rectum. He would then also imagine animals licking vigorously at his scrotum while he masturbated.

Ivan grew deeper and deeper into his autoeroticism and avoided the rest of the world violently, his addiction made him skip meals and life became depressing.

Masturbation for him was only another way out. His genitals were his life.

People find countless ways to get it off good, some have dire consequences. Such like a vacuum cleaner company developed its design in the 50's by adding a rotating razor blade on the inside of their pipes to shred up all the things that may clog up the system. This resulted in many men having to be rushed to the hospital because their penises were either severed, partially severed, stuck or partially severed and stuck.

The deeper the addiction grew, the more experimental he became, the more misanthropic he was.

To cut the long story short (I'm too lazy to write), Ivan masturbated, and about 10 seconds before he ejaculated, he cut the oxygen to his brain to get a better feeling. This is called autoerotic asphyxia.

He suffocated to death, more or less masturbated to death. Suicide through masturbation... bet you didn't know it was possible to huh?

I MISS YOU; MEET ME?

I love this movie, Juno, it's beautiful, real and very sweet. And I'm addicted to playing this on guitar.
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It's been a long time since I've seen you, how have you been? Where did you go to? Why'd you leave me hanging like that if you and I both know that we have feelings for each other? You leave me breathless, but darling, you're suffocating me.

For two months that boy thought like that. Two months when he made a grave mistake, but it was the best thing he's ever done.

You see, for this boy, he thinks he loves that girl; he thinks.

No amount of words can express how his heart wanted to explode when she crawled up under his arm; it's an anorexic romance: too skinny to be love, too thick to be labeled lust; it's somewhere in between, but he really does not know.

One moment she can build him into a massive structure, but in an almost instant, she can defile him into rubble.

So the lyrics are true: 'Why do you build me up, buttercup baby and you break me down...I need you more than anyone darling...'

Or so it went something like that.

Each time he thinks he's onto her, she vanishes into the invisible smog of the vibrant, polluted city.

He will never forget how she smelt, how beautiful each curve on her was; he remembers caressing and feeling each bump on her beautiful, tropical skin. He remembers wrestling his tongue with hers and groping that firm, tight ass and squeezing on those breasts as though they were stress balls. He remembers licking each part of her body and hearing her moan.

For once, he didn't just want to please a girl, he wanted to love her, he wanted to make her happy, he wanted to hold her every night to sleep and to wake up to see her beautiful face.

But she's gone as soon as she came.

It's almost enchanted, don't you think? Like a dream. Haven't you ever woken up and forcing yourself back to sleep cause you were enjoying that dream? This is what he felt about her.

To him she is beauty. A deviation.

So was that the first time you fucked a dead girl?

Check this out folks.... I found a fucking wheelchair!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Ok so I'm replacing it with the chair that cut me up that night.

I also bought Joy some guppies; she'll take them once she shifts to her new place.

So anyway, I was discussing to myself on my new wheelchair that if I were to create a job for myself, I'd be a vocabularian! A person who comes up with words, just to get paid to make shit up. Then create words like misogynistisim;one who dwells in the ideal of misogyny. Or abominative; equal to the meaning of destructive.

But fuck all that, I'm not in a very good mood now; my parents fucked me up since last night and oh the beauty! I never did anything wrong this time, really. I was forced to suck up to them this entire saturday; apologies friends. But yeah, I'm not gonna express all my angst here. It'll just waste your time and my effort.

So I'm going to improvise on a story, remember that other time I wrote about voyeurism? This is another friday for that guy...
_____________________________________________________________________________________

I'm standing here in front of this window again, hand stuffed crassly down my pants, waiting for my show to start.

There, my spartan and his masochistic princess frolic on the satin linen, petting and groping each sensitive spot.

Flabbergasted you say I am?-- Very.

But it's alright to forget how to breathe once in a while like this, it chokes the insanity exploding in the multitudes within your knotted brain.

My penis is like an anxious horse, waiting to charge into the horizons of sexual immorality.

But fuck that! I believe nothing in this world should ever be immoral. Honestly, think about it, we weren't evolved into a civilised world. All this bullshit of technology, industrialization, urbanization, culture and what have you. All this 'morality', 'sanity'; all these are just vortexes in which we create to displace the idea of fear, work; we just want to make this life seem safer, seem easier, seem more fluid, more 'professional'.

I tell you, if not for the Brits, we would have still been chopping heads in jungles, if not for scientists, our only source of entertainment would be 2 baboons slapping their red asses at our faces, if not for the civilization, this entire planet, would be perfectly insane.

In which I would prefer...but then again, I wouldn't be standing here, you wouldn't know what a game console is, and we would definitely be plucking ticks out of each others' hair.

Someone once said, "Culture is to make a drinking bowl out of your enemy's skull, civilization is to go to prison for doing that."

The writings of Nietzsche inspire me in me in multiple ways, but I'm not here to give you a review on 'Beyond Good and Evil' or debate the philosophy in 'The Antichrist'. I'm here to tell you all what I'm jacking off to.

As you already know, the last time I was here, the 'Spartan' tried to become a solo '15-man-bukkake-mob'. Today is rather different.

"It's my turn to choose, darling," I heard him say as he pulled his lips from her nipples, "the last time you took my cum, this time, I'll shit, pee and spit on you altogether..."

"That's fucking absurd, Andre! Do you think I'm a fucking toilet?! But it does sound fun..."

People, read no farther, this is going to turn out worse than '2 Girls 1 Cup'.

But if you've watched Japanese kinky videos, they go far worse than your imagination.

She began licking at his asshole as he forced out a wet discharge of brown, vile substance...

*writer's note: As I'm writing this, I'm imagining your wicked reactions and enacting them out as I go on, please that this 'recess' to grab a bucket, my imagination does stretch quite a bit...*

He moaned in relieved ecstasy, then grunting again as he squeezed his guts for a second discharge, this one going all over her face, browning her beauty.

He did this multiple times before urinating all over the lavish carpet.

He turned around looking at his work of art, then he spat on her.

Slut.

Whore.

Bitch.

Beautiful.

He began licking her clitoris, banging on her vandalized body, licking off the shit on her. He began to vomit inside her.

I turned away, I'm too disgusted for this, this is too immoral to even be savage.

I'll come back another friday.

Anorexic Cynic part II

Cecil was his world, Cecil was his light, Cecil was his everything.

Everything Cecil wants, Cecil gets.

This was Planet Cecil.

For the 5 year old paper doll and the 64-year-old man.

Formalistic to her, and to her alone.

This is Cecil.

She was adorned with all sorts of condiments, flowers, girly stuff; sugar, spice and everything nice?

Day and night he rued her, unfathomably he rued her. More vivacious than ever, he fell in love.

Such loneliness has the tenacity to provoke such adherence. The probabilistic similarity to that of love, of affection, of lust, of desire and of other such adjectives.

Charlie played Bad English's 'When I see you smile'. And as he was humming the bass line to the chorus, his eyes stung. Blinking out tears, he thought of every moment he had spent with Cecil, from when he first crafted her, to this very moment.

Author's note: Actually, I see many possibilities to continue and end this very boring, very plain, very, very stale story. So I leave it to you to give me suggestions to continue from here :)

Anorexic Cynic.

Two people are telling me to write happy stories, Joy and CELESThamphetamINE. Ok I will try to alright?

Charlie Peterson worked day and night for 42 years as a security officer, he made his home in the basement of the building he took care of. Turning 60, he decided to retire.

As you retire, God only knows how dry life can get. It's like getting married all over again; in sickness and in health, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, till death do us part, that kind of bull.

But retirement is totally different, you get married to an unhappy life, till death do you part.

Charlie never married, only to his job.

He killed boredom by taking up an origami class and got instantly, crassly addicted to folding bits of paper.

He got very, very hostile whenever somebody touched his paper art, it sort of gave him a telepathic communication with them, almost an alternate reality.

He talked to them, named them, but merely payed attention to all but one.

Meet Cecil, a paper doll with a glued on skirt cut from a red plastic bag, a smiley face drawn in pencil, with freckles and glued on hair from string.

He developed a crass addiction to Cecil, he thought it could talk back to him, she went whereever he did, she became his best friend.

Her beauty was an artform, a handicraft of his desire; a paper mannequin forged to transcend his reality. He believed she was real, just as how you would believe santa was real when you were a kid.

As volumous as how one would fall in love, he crafted her out of multitudes of cigarette paper, out of boredom and unintention.

Those around him woed him about his condition, but soon fell silent, but all he ever wanted was to fall in love, and he finally did.

He spent whereever, whenever with her, all night and all day. He took her to theme parks, parks, restaurants where he sat her at the empty seat and ordered food for her, he sang her songs, bought her flowers and spent nights with her lying down in dark fields watching starless skies hover above them.

All he ever wanted from her was to marry her.

Through her, he found solace, he found balance, everything he sought out in life was accomplished through her, she was his pillar of strength, or so he thought.

He loved her without reason, without cause. He loved her more than what it had already meant, he loved her too much.

He loved her so much to a point of indulgence where nothing else mattered.

All this went on for 5 years.

It's funny really, how when one grows older, they act exactly how they did when they were younger, it's almost as if she was the capital of his reality.

----END OF PART ONE----

Planet Kvnt

It had been months since I was watching them. Behind my jealous eyes leered a mind waiting to explode in all of fantasy and sexual reality.

Their bodies converged in a seizure-like intensity; passion with demise; sexual abomination.

I watched as they frolicked and twirled around like drunk ice-skaters; assuming position to position in a memorized sequence.

He hacked himself onto her like a machete onto branches, she moaned, heaved and sighed in every way possible. With every breath she took, a flame within me lick temptingly, waiting to devour my person.

For months i had snuck here by this window just to watch them, and each time, I grow exhausted from the masturbation and my orgasm.

Live porn forever.

Each time when he was done with her, his lean figure slouched in a tired manner, almost as though a Spartan fatigued from battle.

He panted heavily with sweat trickling down his muscular body, his shadow casted on the wall; disgraced and wanting to disintegrate into the nightly winds; frost bitten into disgust.

This was the way with sex, one moment lovers, when that moment's gone, you hate them, but you hate yourself even more.

This had been going on a few months, love then hate. The cycle continues; lust then digust.

Friday night was role-play night, they would pretend to be something they're not for that one night, just to savour the sex, just to savour the moment; just trying not to hate each other.

"Pretend you are a 15-man bukkake mob," she tells him, "cum all over me all night long."

He attempts to go in piece by piece the first 'guy' came in at a little over 2 minutes, then as he grew tired, he grew slower, grew weaker, becoming in all doubt a 9 man bukkake mob instead.

She was dressed in both thick and watery grey, cloudy, sticky fluid, licking and tasting her dressing. Just like mayonase and thousand island sauce on a salad altogether.

This was more intense than I would have ever imagined, I was already ejeculating and i haven't even reached for my member.

I wanted to be mob members 11-15 or maybe more now. My fluid was running down my boxers, swiftly down my leg, the warm sensation glued my pants and boxers to my skin.

This is uncomfortable.

I stuff my left arm down my pants, caressing and comforting and drying my excited member.

The fatigued Spartan sunk into his seat, penis red, and most probably in an intense, acute pain from all that dry masturbation, he seemed pleased with his art.

It is time for me again to take my leave, come back another friday, or perhaps another day. Live porn forever.

Kvnt.
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I went out yesterday again with Joy, maybe for once I realised that I need her more than anything. We went to watch the National Day Parade as with almost a thousand tonnes of human waste, fanatics just there for the show; all with the same purpose: to get the best view of the fire works.

We went back to my place, she really needed to go back home, so we gathered her stuff and went to MaccyD's.

Bumped into Michelle and Eric there, waited for Khallis, whom I got along pretty well with.

Dropped by Michelle's place and had a beer and some ciggies then sent Joy home. Almost 3 years and she still kisses me the same, still holds me the same, still says things the same. She's so beautiful wherever I see her.

She does to me what colours do to the eyes, everytime I think of her, it's like playing the same old Air Supply song, it's like writing without words. Sometimes I do wonder if i just say things, make shit up just to feel romantic.

She bites me even more passionate now, actually more roughly, but i enjoy it. my lips are still bleeding, it's swollen, sore and has a larger laceration. I love her too much.
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Strawberries ist Krieg part II

These are some other shorts of mine

Hooks;
Wretched are the woes of man, bedeviled is the qualm of humanity; existence is only but futile in the palms of man...

‘Eyes are used to see, ears are used to hear and the mouth is used to hold the tongue.’


Before I begin, this is a mere short story, rather of an entire climax. So before you read on further, I must suggest you kiss sanity goodnight and hope it returns as soon as possible.

As I lie on my bed, I began to look back on those who perished on front of my eyes, on one incident;
I used to work at the pig farm my dear uncle owned, there also worked the fat slob who invades the local bar every Friday night, groping his endomorphic, sweaty palms on the waitresses, tipping them ‘big’ to get some quick love, none of the tried methods came through. I would not want to describe the tyranny he caused those around him; it was genocide without corpses.

Then all those who were plagued by this man got their ejaculate revenge; he was doing his meat hooking duty; hooking up the multitudes of pig corpses ready for consumption and then hooking the hooks on the conveyor where they will be then delivered in the cute trucks with the pig on the side. It was duty as usual, in the context of almost every bustling tale, then, ah here comes the climax, you’ll have to start holding your breath from here till the end of this flashback because you don’t want to miss a word of it, and I will describe it in detail with the vast expanse of my vocabulary.

Ready?

Inhale; Exhale; Inhale; Hold.

So let me restart that sentence: it was duties as usual, hooking and hooking, not bothering to say good bye to the precious life stolen for dinner, he rummaged for another meat hook when the entire cupboard of hooks fell on him.

You might think this is very painful but very lenient for a man of this odium but please read on;
He found enough strength to push the cupboard off and reached for a hook- the one hooking his esophagus, so there he was pertinently removing the hook but dramatically got in deeper to the other end, he scurried for help but he couldn’t talk, yet alone shout and yet again, dramatically, he got hooked onto the conveyor, in his rapid attempt for survival.

This is where I go into detail, he grabbed onto anything strong, but the conveyor kept pulling but this then lead to his entire spinal cord being ripped from it place, so he kind of lost his head, and once again, there is more blood to beat any Hollywood gory flick, this is the kind of scene you would never see on reality TV.

It was the kind of scene that any gore freak would pay to watch over and over again as they grab for lumps and lumps of popcorn.

But I’m not just telling this story to amuse you, no, maybe partly because of that but not exactly- it was because this sickening wraith touched my sister.

I so wanted revenge, but sometimes you might just need to wait for retribution, it might just pay you a visit.

I stood laughing within above his grave, my jubilant heart bounced about in this victory.

Exhale.

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And another.

Scars; only the dead see the end of the war…

‘You are a scar, something to remind me the past is real; you are nothing but a memory, a defiled truth from harsh reality.’

I sat there like a holy man waiting for a sign from the Gods, a significance of divinity, a prayer answered, just for something I did not expect but expected, just for something to happen, for a miracle maybe?

I wanted devotion, a tale I can relate to as a turning point in life, some obscurity to lose myself, I look at the mirror and only see an eclipse of what I used to be, I look at my hand.

All I see are scars from the wars I have been in my life, nothing neither civil nor international, but mere personal issues.

Scars, it’s my little reminder of why the past has to exist.

I am just a single representation, sensibly a capriciously malevolent example of how twisted an individual can get.

At least, in my point of view, no it is a fact.

So this story is just what I want people to know, that life is over the top, and only the dead do see the end of the war, but the problem is which war?

Lighting another cigarette after another and so forth, just thinking.

It then occurred to me about a friend of mine:

She was 16 and I was 13, about that era, nu-metal bands came to light, bands which I won’t waste my time listing, bands I did not bother with getting lost into the lyrics with, music I could never find any peace in. But during that time, the neighborhood in which we lived in was relentlessly ravaged by drugs and also the intoxicated whores that infect drunken men in need of satisfaction with aids.
She had every reason to be who she was, her screwed up parents made her a junkie, and the ‘hope-dope’ was paid for by prostitution and all of which made her stay back a couple of years in school.

I was her only friend in class, never got any luck with her, just didn’t want to, but the rest of the guys in class were customers.

One day we were getting stoned on our friend Mary Jane, or ‘marijuana’ in mundane lingo and she told me that she was sick and tired of living.

I, being the good virgin friend said this to her, “So do you plan to kill yourself?”

“Yes, very much in fact.”

She stared at me with a kind of stoned gloom, but I knew she meant it.

I managed to get my hands on some anti-depressants and gave them to her, to cut the long story short-

she took the pills, but after she got drunk, this then lead to her hanging herself while taping a beer bottle up her clit.

Thinking back and looking at some of my friends, I am pretty much a sophisticated example of depravity, but a genuine example of what a twisted, contorted world this is.

Do be reminded that this flashback has not ended, there is more to this tale-

Parents oh, parents; it is never correct for a child to perish before an elder, nor is it correct for one to doubt their existence.

Her parents were not just weeping, but blaming each other for the cause of death, for months and months I observed and overheard countless arguments which lead to an upturned house, even in my current solace, I can still hear the screams, like a reflected memory. I remember glasses breaking and so many things being thrown around, it was nothing short of a nightmare.

It was all mentally mutilating and psychologically decapitating; pure torture.
Then on one occasion, I incidentally strolled past them as they argued, minding my own business, when the man took his gun out- Pointing it first to the now growing, anxious crowd as a sign of warning that mashed bits of burning brain will fly if anyone were to step closer then to his petrified wife.

“It has finally come to a point where you have totally split my mind, you’re just an obscenity to begin with and a curse to live with, and may your peace desert you in your death and never again find happiness!” the psychotic man screamed maniacally in an outburst of omnipotent rage, before he pulled the trigger, he broke into a bedeviled smile, as if possessed.

Bang.

The woman flew with her mangled bits of brain into the harangued audience as the man pulled the trigger upon himself to get away with murder the easiest way.

Bang.

As melodramatic as he fell, his point blank suicide split his face into something like how one would describe a pizza, there was enough blood to beat any Hollywood gore flick.

I stood there dazed, enthralled by the brain that landed on my forearm, my eyes danced in frantic anxiety around the room before passing out, this was definitely not the story you tell anyone to get a good first impression.

That was a demon of my bitter past, but one of many reasons why I chose to do this.

Once again I look at the mirror; and I still see in the reflection, the eclipse of the person I once was, only now, darker.

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Strawberries ist krieg!

For those who know me, well you guys really don't.
ok that was cliche!
My name is Kvnt or Marc or Oi or Eh or Bro or Bruv or whatever nonsensical names you call me.

I made this for one sole purpose only; to let you read my shorts and my reviews and just pen down some bullshit poetry and of course to waste my time.

This is a one of my recent shorts, titled: Doughnuts.

Doughnuts.
Your mind is foggy today; you can almost know what it will be like for the rest of the day:

Your crappy job, your commute back to your shithole apartment, your stale microwave dinner, your useless boring wife and your lazy Yorkshire terrier, Fluffy.

You know this because it happens every day.
It happens so much; it’s like turning back the hands of time whenever you fall asleep. You know this because every day is another longest day, every day is a Monday, every day is the same vision, every day, it’s the same fucking story, and this is a severed state of continuous déjà vu.

You can almost smell doughnuts, no, you do smell doughnuts, and maybe today isn’t so much the same after all.

So here you are in your constant façade thinking about doughnuts.

You glance up to the bunch of guys who were eating and decided to yourself, you won’t eat with them; they’re all what you would call them, infidels.

Simon Duff, secretly masturbates in his work cubicle leaving his cum in his under pants for him to go back home to sniff the dry semen off it.

Daniel Holmes, your manager, mister big boss on this level, suffered from urinary tract infection for trying to stuff his penis into his asshole every time he shat.

And of course we have Tobias Gilmore who stored his semen in a jar and refrigerated it then his wife thought it was condensed milk then suffered from a really bad stomach ache; his son suffered the same fate too, only he thought it was mayonnaise.

You’re an infidel too, only far worse than anyone here; just to ‘spice’ up your ever boring days, you rush to the toilet to masturbate while stuffing a metal rod down your shaft, just to get that ‘requiem’ of an orgasm.
Face it, chump, you’re just as sick as anyone of these bastards.

A new pain a day keeps insanity away.

Maybe you should try sticking your dick into a doughnut covered with a diaphragm, see how that feels like- warm creamy goodness. Oh wait, You already did that when you were a teen.

MarcAshleyAlexanderWahid.