Most Sensitive

I am a very sensitive person. Much like an eggshell. No, that’s not right. More like an egg. I still have the mush & goop inside. My guts. A single cold egg. I used to think I had the gift of sight. A perfect game. That I saw instinctively what other people instinctively missed. I was gifted. I was open to possibility. I was a friend to chance because I accepted all situations as naked & fresh. The game for me was never intellectual. I was spiritual. The game was spiritual. My vocabulary here seems obvious (however this same obviousness only testifies to the fact that I was never a very analytical person) unless it is noted that at the time of these reflections I was no more than 17 years old. A boy. Since, I have rejected the simplistic nature of my self-analysis which may have something to do with my current obsession with my penis. I masturbate with the monomania of a teenager. I imagine young girls drinking down gallons of my fresh hot semen, pouring buckets of gunk down their open throats so that they choke & gag, mixing saliva & pubic hair, rubbing their tits while groaning from the slight pain of a belly over-filled. My scenarios are hardly imaginative; I see bedrooms, or bathrooms, or kitchens. My women are always young girls, semi-constructed from magazines or people I have seen. It never occurs to me that I might fuck an old housewife, outside in some park, next to a tree. That type of fantasy feels French to me, and I detest the French. Just don’t like them, for whatever reason. This is not to say that I lack imagination. I feel I have a very strong imagination. At the moment I live in a world almost entirely of my own construction. I live alone. I stay inside. I get terribly bored most of the time. (this boredom): rook takes queen; pawn takes rook; knight takes pawn; checkmate. I’ve been listening to a lot of Charlie Parker lately. Yup. And some of the later Coltrane. Mysticism. Colors. The more notes the merrier. Tons of notes. I can’t possibly hear them all, but I guess I do. One right after the other. They’re all there every time, but I listen to these records over & over. They seem to embrace the same law of discovery that I once embraced, but somehow I have fallen down a rung. I begin to think. To analyze. I replay the same 7 games over & over in my head, like the records I play. Somehow I have lost a freedom I once had. An innocence, I suppose. This is self-torture. Self-mutilation. I keep fingering the same wound hoping to reveal more meat & more bone. I get the same old meat & the same old bone. This is my ego. It’s huge. Like my swollen cock. The same cock that drowns teenagers by the dozen. Pools of the most sensitive sperm.

© 2003 – Gordy Amede

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