Hostage : How Rape Re-Circulates

My finger-nail is caked in coconut oil.

IMG_20170308_072301[1]

IMG_20170309_122053[1]

IMG_20170309_122051[1]

 

fiction to post: 3817

fiction reality-based?

{a gross

IMG_20170308_194236[1]

IMG_20170309_124857[1]IMG_20170309_124858[1]IMG_20170309_124906[1]

skit}

so obvious: wear face-masks; [

_________________________^ which have at least

a

duplci

tous

meaning.

 

stupid

Hostager 1: I’m getting so horny;

I can’t help it if all these people

want my ass. I’m working

so hard keeping people hostage, illegally.

 

stupid

Hostager 2: Virtually or in-self.

 

Stupid

Hostager 1: Both [heheheheheh]

I mean C’mon we’re holding

them hostage [further implicating

2] they should have sex with us

 

Stupid Hostager

2 : [Obviously possessed

by some-thing][trying]

[to create Safety.] I dunno

I should get my hair done.

 

Stupid Hostager

1 : What about me? C’mon!

I need to have sex.

 

[The Rape.]

Raped 1: Screams Screams Screams.

Raped 2: Dies Almost in Fear. Then

Revived. [How?] I liked it.

[cited: [thanks!?!]

Stockholm Syndrome.]

[End-of-Skit.]

 

fiction to post: 3.8.17 part two [Not Mental Illness]

(a)

When I close my eyes; dose or

close ; I see flashing lights which

help ‘revive’ my energy &  . . .

[rest][focus] [create

inculcated [sp?] right

judgment] [no missing ] on purpose]

(b) [Functional Mental Illness]

When I open my eyes I often see

flashing lights; and they remind me

that I have decided upon desires. [like the compartmentalization of hills.]

(c) Open-Closed [Neither But Not THAT]

How do I  see flashing lights?

 

Part Three. The Death Statement & Fictional Art Statement: From My Perspective

dedicated to my real f. s.a.p. the friggin’ sap of three.

I know the tree, made him un-comfortable;

and that he didn’t like the dollhouse;

tools of tr. profanity in poverty; like-that, I guess.

How odd; I hadn’t thought about it so immensely. I was just there for the tour; and

I just hadn’t had a chance to visit until then.

I guess how you make a place like that your home; is by cleaning what’s mostly or definitely yours; and then it is your home despite; what is that called: racism. Their racism. & then I guess you get older and it comes back to kill you; but those things are still yours; those real works. are yours.

 

They never got to go to his funeral; and I did. I buried him “free” since I was his only like relative at the funeral. I don’t think they even told his brother; and I didn’t have his number or real name then; at that moment; in that stages of reality interchange. We’d been kidnapped past real names of real brothers, at that point. But not real run-ins with real brothers. You never knew. But this part was real; except I wasn’t a boy that buried him; usually they needed a man to bury you or at least a boy. Ha-ha-ha-ha that made me laugh; because they had no way to no me. Ha-ha-ha-ha I knew him like actual knew him when I was a young not boy. He was my brother’s [only] best friend among many friends and higher real relatives. In the detachment of his deadened eye expression I could see the kilt of a best friend. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha it was no secret. & I’m from heaven at-least; ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha. & My brother was my favorite before he died, too; in a similar way; in a kilted way: “higher!”  Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha the secrets of best friends. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha you never knew. Always protected by the dia-frams of brotherhoods; ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha.

 

Do you know what racism is? The woman next to me won’t stop fake cleaning despite not being the cleaning woman-persons; until she looks exactly like me. No! It’s my face and me.

The truth is; I didn’t want anybody else who knew him then, there. I didn’t want the pain of his brother to color his way. what a word, color his way. I didn’t want the racism against his father, tainted into non-progression; to limit his understanding of him; I didn’t want the grief of my brother and some of my neighbors to injure any of  all of them. I could only trust myself; and those that didn’t know him then; to “higher” him to “free” and that doesn’t mean that you didn’t feel his pram.

 

Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha prams are interesting creaters of sighs.

 

 

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s