Ayn Rand - Nope, She Is Still Wrong.

I appreciate her work - I do ... To some extent. Much like all things, moderation is key. Doing my best to keep from becoming and idiot- aka, ideological group thinking piece of recessive shit, I like to sift through the garbage before I digest ...

I care about my caloric mental intake.

I see several "Atlas Shrugged Day!!!!"... Are you fucking new? Are you still shiny? You're such ideological thinkers - how fucking depressing. You cling to her book and errant fanatical bullshit - Stiitchens fucks Freud, Frankenstein whack job ... like Christians who invoke the name of Christ for winning lottery tickets.

"Since my purpose is the presentation of an ideal man, I had to define and present the conditions which make him possible and which his existence requires. Since man’s character is the product of his premises, I had to define and present the kind of premises and values that create the character of an ideal man and motivate his actions; which means that I had to define and present a rational code of ethics. Since man acts among and deals with other men, I had to present the kind of social system that makes it possible for ideal men to exist and to function—a free, productive, rational system, which demands and rewards the best in every man, great or average, and which is, obviously, laissez-faire capitalism."

Her ideal man is a product of her imagination - not ones who exist in reality. Critical fucking thinking you dip-shits. She was in contradiction to the nature of mankind. It's one thing to appreciate a person works, for sure she was brilliant and major icon... But to be cognitively dissonant and proud is another. You waste your time on purely utopian nonsense. There has never been any evidence of man not being a strategic liar; usurper; deceitful or a host of other human ANIMAL behaviors. In fact most you promoting her ideals on human nature exhibit them yourselves - lying. When have we ever accepted other cultures without being critical? What fucking examples do you have of her view of human nature? None.

They don't exist. Purely utopian. You have to invent the ideal man - as she did, from your fucking imagination.

I Didn't Know You Well.

~0~




you passed in silence
barely did I feel your presence  
so I mourn what I never really felt
my words become a tombstone
to your pitiful demise

spiral affection

I-my pretty words for you -

liquid lips; round s w o l l e n lovers lies
      limp limbs
               words that rapture
leaking me into the creases of you
             fearful of compromise
surrender my
           thorns
I lay them to side
             gilded messiah
in-caged in your lusts
        refusal to see deeply into the r a v i n e  
chastened but unaware  
       

je t'aime

I can lay inside your eyes, sleep contently.
Lay folded within your ears, plucking waves like peaches
from a metaphorical tree.

If love were as fallen petals from dying flowers,
I'd be scattered across the remnants of my darker me ...

You make me tread the light and think of letters drowned in passion,
ink black as night, vivid on the white sheet beneath its writhing form ...
sweet emotional collapse.

I've always said I'd whisper you sweet cushy shit ...
Words that strip me naked before you, humbled.

So I have.

Clay.

Image by Carnoodles via Flickr

Lines… It’s become a tangle of lines to pacify myself. A weaving I can’t comprehend or fashion into a usable garment to clothe exposed parts… There is no space within me that I haven’t ventured – stomped, slashed or distorted. I can’t be me – not ever, not really. I am what I need to be in the moment – or to be soft for another. Only when in argumentation, debate or reciprocal sex – am I me… The rest is but a reflection off a mirror image – not of my own, but of whomever I think is passable. When I drink I am reminded of self- she burns. She leaves me on fire with ideals … and wants. I become a petulant child who screams into the thickest parts of myself and like glitter – aspects of me rise like moths in tall grass… consuming me. So very splintered… I keep thinking one day … all of me will find comfort.

A friend of mine told me that when he was inside his wife – he could feel more than just her wetness, or form… He felt her… He felt her breathing, her pulse…

He smelled her…
 

He was connected in a way he couldn’t put into words or find words that could convey the deepness of what he felt ; sensed or just knew…

Is that love? Or another form of love? … I know many- felt a few.

Interlude

inner web of me 
loosened lines have lost all hold
trot ridden prick-full conceived bastard of a poorly paid whore
tripped in the thick of word 
silver lined tongue;spun lies like lovers
twisted in your disrepair 
deep seeded yet barren fool of compromise
head held low; fallen king of nothing gained 
nothing lost... you were never even a whisper to my truth

bitten through

Image via Wikipedia
Been a while since I openly crept into my lobe ....

Burnt out chastened whore

Smearing your scent

Leaving your words like soiled panties

Held down 

Clinging to the floor of wicked whim.

Callous cunt with no remorse – to never be shed

Slit and slipped beneath your skin…

You never felt me sleep.

Love is cuntish ... past reflections. Did you miss me ?

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