deepundergroundpoetry.com
Pages torn from a hustler's journal: 10
So stretch your mind before you check your body and maybe you’ll be fine to drop naughty oddities or solve what arises. Set your sights higher, solve and not have to face the same problem twice. Every device, ask how do we prevent this, sense and observe, what is meant to make sure. The essence of preparation, wake up and take it in.
Early morning coffee, showers, sex, meditation, contemplation, freedom to make what’s within an outside win. Devout to my spin, turn anything around and bend my ground like it was still clay. Overflowing with play. Particles and waves. From the start it stays.
A day when everything comes into flow. Run past what you know. Blowing limits grows infinite, and what discomfort rides, the hunger inside wonders how to divide that point, focus and annoint, make the sensation holy so it’s perceived as something to hold me. Unfold the pages of the sensation, Beast released from the cage, he can take it in. And feast on agony and chagrin. Nothing passes me that doesn’t reflect a lens, no matter how dim. If I can’t see the light that returns, that’s another night for me to learn.
What’s sparks with delight. What larks stay tight. What’s done in the dark will come out in the light. What’s wrong won’t sit right. What you fight will make your sight flip. What you resist persists. Choose your path and your battle, plan past the prattle the boundary and the map, track it whole. Some fights are more compatible. See what you have to match and just go.
Practice your art, heart shaped asses start, gets your breath animal, your chest a candle, Prometheus handles, repeat the dance and the role, Overstand the chance, relate and market the caper. Your art is your ultimate self-wager. The wealth of your own flavor. What’s felt in your mental behavior. What’s left lingering when you leave later. What fingers in your fist, springs up in your mist, makes you a Satyr King, universal fader ring. Big Bang and your life, still the same thing. A part of the universe, inseparable, so rhetoric unrehearsed so exceptional, peddle quips in bursts essential. Heavy mental temple of the elemental. Grace lightning Everything in its place and a place for everything.
What’s better at play, leather and lace, weather be whatever, I’ll still play. Wherever I stay, I made my home inside, and that ride on roam still flies. Nobody who needed this could ever read the rebus and in the end they feed on their lust, while my self-trust breaks the crust, and the unjust? Just another perspective I wouldn’t touch. Brush up against the shouldn’t and see that you could do past your means, map the unseen, tap out the truly keen, groove to a new scene, fluid conduit gains, subconscious rearranges, honesty in the game, blossoming out of your pain, distilled with time, so killing these rhymes is crunching punchlines against the clock of your heart stopping after enough years. Trust in the fear, touch the mirror, and come back closer to here.
Instantly put yourself in your own heaven, Infinite Lesson, 1— 7, as a kid you wanted to grow so bad. Eager is where the lad was dwelling. Needing everything the world was selling, eating on what was foretelling, the future gelled in. Spellbound by possibilities and odds, willing to go test and prod, jest a whole mob. Got beat, bested and robbed. Learned to be complete in every breath and evolve. Beast doesn’t rest or absolve. Release the stress, ease the mess, free ride on the crest, and solve what’s left. Cost of a full life’s investment, no losses only lessons, stressing into blessings. All perspective is lent in. Getting bent means another use, shudder too, it gets utterly true.
Journaling when hungry, yearning to lift the younger me, remembering what was under me, what I wondered if I could be. Waking up and making that me, taking the time to set each line where it should be. Principles, goals and fears, simple roll and steer. Mercenary minstrel, unfold some fears. Nothing sold is ever as it appears. Caveat Emptor. Traps in store. Collapse the chords, dense sound discord, sense the ground wants more.
The discipline of filling in, writing and filing, compiling and editing, letting the run spill. Everything under the sun dies whether killed or left alone. Whatever done is stilled, return to stone. Whatever was one, burns to none. Everything dispersed returns to Earth, the original birth and everything subliminal is extraneous. The lanes become minimal, the changes fade into grain against the black sound, the background, what left as reality drowns. Perception an anomaly that crowns.
See the naked quiet side, make it and try it live. Something to take up high. Something that hatched out of a baked sky. Nothing fake on that side. Like the taste of a woman’s sigh. Recreate what aches and fulfill it endlessly on your own melody, self-actualizing ahead of me.
Is it still a gilded cage if the bars are of your own complacency and surrender? Trust Fund prison trope. Generation of man-children missed Tyler Durden’s warning. Fuck it. Hard times make strong men. Strong men make good times. Good times make weak men. Weak men make hard times.
Pendulum brings the finest hip swinging music though.
Love yourself. An upgrade isn’t someone who looks better than your last. (Though that does tend to piss off the abusive ones, and for some reason elevates the ones who lovingly let you go and cheer your success, when they see you dating women you considered out of your league) An upgrade is someone who treats, appreciates and values you more than your last.
A child doesn’t have to be biologically yours for you to love them as your own. Tribal sentience from a chid’s first sentence, as I bonded with Max. Word, familial adaptability is a biological mechanism to preserve a genetic phenotype regardless of irrelevant gay shit like traditions and bloodlines, sustains the crest of the population. Each one teach one.
A world that no longer exists, what I was prepared for. The last wave to be raised by Vietnam Vets. Rules were slippery for the Trickle Down Generation. So glad Disney Plus picked up every season of Simpsons. (Minus the Tracy Allman early years of course) Need to relate again
7 years without censoring myself to comfort people’s ignorance. Haven’t lost a single worthy friend, just a trunkload of baggage. Also, curious as to how my friend with Down’s Syndrome from the Paranormal Investigation squad is somehow waaaaay the fuck LESS ignorant, better informed and better behaved than anyone I dropped in the last 7 years.
“Wherever you consider your stuntmen expendable? That’s where the next big trend in action is gonna come from.” -Iron Fists and Kung Fu Kicks documentary
…but hey man, if you switch out the two subject points (stuntmen, action) and substitute them for, uh, well fucking ANY resource branch? Fuck some lame shit like laws and traditions, eventually SOMEONE’s gonna lift the reigns and turn that branch into a chain. Word to Misbehavioral Economics
Class ran hard. Blood on the go isn’t enough to slake the thirst. Bunch of us meatheads agreed to try co-ed pole dance class in the future. Lateral to grappling and secret training advantage as it’s said to be way fucking harder than BJJ for conditioning. If it serves the purpose and improves guard game? Wait a few years, for the wave to start. Future generations will feature pole dancing fighting champions.
Brown Belt Mike has gone on major player mode, dating strippers, embracing Red Pill philosophy so hard, and presently plans on reducing his life to renting a tiny house on 4 acres of land and dedicating the rest of the time to travel and adventure, setting up his life such that everything supports the adventure. Young forever, die as Peter Pan. Enough of us do, that it’s something that can be figured out and organized. I sent him a bunch of links regarding how to travel cheap, live for cheap, as well as speeches about masculinity, freedom, mobility, living for your own purpose, redefining your happiness. The merits of a forever young, live exuberantly, maximize your talents and you time for your own goals and future and not someone else’s lame idea of what’s what. That definitely comes up a lot in BJJ. Independence, stoic resolution and autonomous living. Matt and his wife started their businesses because that’s their crusade. No kids, just a business. Snohomish objected to a pole dance class in their downtown at first and Matt and Mariana had to struggle and campaign to make Aquarela acceptable. They still have to work, her as a librarian and him as an assembler. Jeremy, Damon’s instructor over at Team Mean Jiu Jitsu had to work construction for the first several years his studio was open as well. You really have to make the sacrifice and make it work yourself when you do jiu jitsu. The sport draws a lot of people who won’t let life crush them, who are entrepreneurs, go-getters, motorcycle riders, sex addicts, gamblers, players, street smart intellectuals, cops, bouncers, soldiers, ex-cons, edgy sorts who don’t equate being real with being rebellious because to them, they’re just pursuing the highest life. Maybe it’s learning your own body and limits and pushing past it that promotes the kind of outside-the-box thinking that also comes with taking those risks and creating that life. It’s the only mode for me.
Bridget reached out recently, soon to graduate, thinking about moving back to Seattle. It would be a trip to do another ride with your fuckdoll, especially after the last few years of head change. You relate to her more now than you did last time. That’s apparent in every phone call and that’s worthy of examination. The blunt and honest, savage, self-serving schema that Bridget shamelessly endorses is key to survival. She isn’t altruistic, warm and generous. She isn’t Cookie Dough. She isn’t Black Girl Magic by any means either. She isn’t any of them. She’s a hard-scrabble survivor, smart and savvy and makes no bones about that coldness. l wouldn’t want her to be the mother of any kids mine or hers.
Um, intellectually, in the centered place, when listening to my oldest self I wouldn’t want her to be the mother of any kids, mine or anyones. But damn, 8 or 9 months ago was that moment, when I woke up and my animal told me to make a baby with Bridget. I didn’t do it, obviously. But I got the call, the voice. Not like the ethereal noise, the spherical choice, the miracle voice that wet up Joan of Arc when she felt the spark. Not the schizophrenic orchestra call. The call of the wild. The DNA speak. My oldest self. My genetic phenotype was missing activation of legacy and the impulse was overriding. It doesn’t take a genius to look at that girl and see she's a killer. Sure, I smell her pheromones, smell when she gets wet and when she menstruates of course. More than that though I smelled predation from jump. I knew what she was at the handshake. If this were a thousand years ago, I could breed with her and be more than certain that if the baby came to term? It would survive the first 6 years. She’d kill anything on 2 or 4 legs that came near. Stock the larder, survive winters harder than mine. Then again 1,000 years ago I couldn’t have likely met her. Point a pistol at a globe, right around Saigon. Squeeze the trigger. Exit wound blossoms out right around Brexit. Real disparate immune system match. Real smart, deadly kids from that progeny-recipe. Prolly gorgeous and devious as well. I didn’t feel much past that though, in that moment. I didn’t wake up and fall in love with my FWB. Nothing like that. My DNA realized that contribution has become my constitution because I reached that stage. So what’s inside put that page to light and without social devices to tell me what’s wrong or right I stayed on animal sight. If I’m at the age where something ahead of me has to be left for legacy, then my business and my difference dispersed, the illicit verse can be my dent in the universe. Double down and beat the clock, get there first. Bridget is badass, but I won’t make her a mother-match. Just make her squirt and burst.
Fuckdoll wants kids, to be domestic down the road. Now is 26 for her. Now is school and career and no need for men except for a few hours at a time, a weekend at most which is where I fit in. Now is 40 for me and I can’t slow down. At the end of this life I would love to be in an orthodox relationship, someone to take care of and to take care of me, but for now there’s too much to get done. Kids would get in the way for me. Let Bridget find her forever man later, when she wants family. I won’t tell her that I don’t think she should be a mom. There’s so many things I can be honest with her about and vice versa, because that’s the nature of a brutally clear and unabashed dynamic. That’s what makes her my fuckdoll. That and her fear of intimacy, which makes for a unique sexual chamber because she doesn’t like maintaining eye contact, in or out of bed and has to detach. It’s odd, but she has those moments when she’s on, but that’s when it’s just about the physical. Hence to please her I have to objectify her. She doesn’t require degradation or abuse, but rough sex, objectified, explicitly just my warm fuckdoll is what she needs for release.
Knowing that rag-doll sex with and without further intimacy before and after is a common hook in sexual melody alerts me to how much blunt honesty a woman requires during conversation. The more raw the sex is, the more real she wants the conversation to be. Women who do a whole range of intimacy, from sensual to extreme kink and open every chamber, sensationally like they’re trying to out-soak every other hedonist are typically women who want the whole tapestry on the mental connection. Women who want it rough, fast, hard, objectifying, tend to want the raw, blunt talk, but that doesn’t mean they want to know everything. There’s a common rhythm to how the back-and-forth goes in conversation and in bed and analyzing women and our dynamic reveals whole new waves and tracks that I’m sure have far-reaching applications elsewhere. High impact verbal dynamics has always leaned into the tongue-as-a-mouth-penis sphere, but I just didn’t have the curriculum outlined before. All of that experience can be reverse-engineered for teaching content. Only way an obsessive autodidact can be content.
Early morning coffee, showers, sex, meditation, contemplation, freedom to make what’s within an outside win. Devout to my spin, turn anything around and bend my ground like it was still clay. Overflowing with play. Particles and waves. From the start it stays.
A day when everything comes into flow. Run past what you know. Blowing limits grows infinite, and what discomfort rides, the hunger inside wonders how to divide that point, focus and annoint, make the sensation holy so it’s perceived as something to hold me. Unfold the pages of the sensation, Beast released from the cage, he can take it in. And feast on agony and chagrin. Nothing passes me that doesn’t reflect a lens, no matter how dim. If I can’t see the light that returns, that’s another night for me to learn.
What’s sparks with delight. What larks stay tight. What’s done in the dark will come out in the light. What’s wrong won’t sit right. What you fight will make your sight flip. What you resist persists. Choose your path and your battle, plan past the prattle the boundary and the map, track it whole. Some fights are more compatible. See what you have to match and just go.
Practice your art, heart shaped asses start, gets your breath animal, your chest a candle, Prometheus handles, repeat the dance and the role, Overstand the chance, relate and market the caper. Your art is your ultimate self-wager. The wealth of your own flavor. What’s felt in your mental behavior. What’s left lingering when you leave later. What fingers in your fist, springs up in your mist, makes you a Satyr King, universal fader ring. Big Bang and your life, still the same thing. A part of the universe, inseparable, so rhetoric unrehearsed so exceptional, peddle quips in bursts essential. Heavy mental temple of the elemental. Grace lightning Everything in its place and a place for everything.
What’s better at play, leather and lace, weather be whatever, I’ll still play. Wherever I stay, I made my home inside, and that ride on roam still flies. Nobody who needed this could ever read the rebus and in the end they feed on their lust, while my self-trust breaks the crust, and the unjust? Just another perspective I wouldn’t touch. Brush up against the shouldn’t and see that you could do past your means, map the unseen, tap out the truly keen, groove to a new scene, fluid conduit gains, subconscious rearranges, honesty in the game, blossoming out of your pain, distilled with time, so killing these rhymes is crunching punchlines against the clock of your heart stopping after enough years. Trust in the fear, touch the mirror, and come back closer to here.
Instantly put yourself in your own heaven, Infinite Lesson, 1— 7, as a kid you wanted to grow so bad. Eager is where the lad was dwelling. Needing everything the world was selling, eating on what was foretelling, the future gelled in. Spellbound by possibilities and odds, willing to go test and prod, jest a whole mob. Got beat, bested and robbed. Learned to be complete in every breath and evolve. Beast doesn’t rest or absolve. Release the stress, ease the mess, free ride on the crest, and solve what’s left. Cost of a full life’s investment, no losses only lessons, stressing into blessings. All perspective is lent in. Getting bent means another use, shudder too, it gets utterly true.
Journaling when hungry, yearning to lift the younger me, remembering what was under me, what I wondered if I could be. Waking up and making that me, taking the time to set each line where it should be. Principles, goals and fears, simple roll and steer. Mercenary minstrel, unfold some fears. Nothing sold is ever as it appears. Caveat Emptor. Traps in store. Collapse the chords, dense sound discord, sense the ground wants more.
The discipline of filling in, writing and filing, compiling and editing, letting the run spill. Everything under the sun dies whether killed or left alone. Whatever done is stilled, return to stone. Whatever was one, burns to none. Everything dispersed returns to Earth, the original birth and everything subliminal is extraneous. The lanes become minimal, the changes fade into grain against the black sound, the background, what left as reality drowns. Perception an anomaly that crowns.
See the naked quiet side, make it and try it live. Something to take up high. Something that hatched out of a baked sky. Nothing fake on that side. Like the taste of a woman’s sigh. Recreate what aches and fulfill it endlessly on your own melody, self-actualizing ahead of me.
Is it still a gilded cage if the bars are of your own complacency and surrender? Trust Fund prison trope. Generation of man-children missed Tyler Durden’s warning. Fuck it. Hard times make strong men. Strong men make good times. Good times make weak men. Weak men make hard times.
Pendulum brings the finest hip swinging music though.
Love yourself. An upgrade isn’t someone who looks better than your last. (Though that does tend to piss off the abusive ones, and for some reason elevates the ones who lovingly let you go and cheer your success, when they see you dating women you considered out of your league) An upgrade is someone who treats, appreciates and values you more than your last.
A child doesn’t have to be biologically yours for you to love them as your own. Tribal sentience from a chid’s first sentence, as I bonded with Max. Word, familial adaptability is a biological mechanism to preserve a genetic phenotype regardless of irrelevant gay shit like traditions and bloodlines, sustains the crest of the population. Each one teach one.
A world that no longer exists, what I was prepared for. The last wave to be raised by Vietnam Vets. Rules were slippery for the Trickle Down Generation. So glad Disney Plus picked up every season of Simpsons. (Minus the Tracy Allman early years of course) Need to relate again
7 years without censoring myself to comfort people’s ignorance. Haven’t lost a single worthy friend, just a trunkload of baggage. Also, curious as to how my friend with Down’s Syndrome from the Paranormal Investigation squad is somehow waaaaay the fuck LESS ignorant, better informed and better behaved than anyone I dropped in the last 7 years.
“Wherever you consider your stuntmen expendable? That’s where the next big trend in action is gonna come from.” -Iron Fists and Kung Fu Kicks documentary
…but hey man, if you switch out the two subject points (stuntmen, action) and substitute them for, uh, well fucking ANY resource branch? Fuck some lame shit like laws and traditions, eventually SOMEONE’s gonna lift the reigns and turn that branch into a chain. Word to Misbehavioral Economics
Class ran hard. Blood on the go isn’t enough to slake the thirst. Bunch of us meatheads agreed to try co-ed pole dance class in the future. Lateral to grappling and secret training advantage as it’s said to be way fucking harder than BJJ for conditioning. If it serves the purpose and improves guard game? Wait a few years, for the wave to start. Future generations will feature pole dancing fighting champions.
Brown Belt Mike has gone on major player mode, dating strippers, embracing Red Pill philosophy so hard, and presently plans on reducing his life to renting a tiny house on 4 acres of land and dedicating the rest of the time to travel and adventure, setting up his life such that everything supports the adventure. Young forever, die as Peter Pan. Enough of us do, that it’s something that can be figured out and organized. I sent him a bunch of links regarding how to travel cheap, live for cheap, as well as speeches about masculinity, freedom, mobility, living for your own purpose, redefining your happiness. The merits of a forever young, live exuberantly, maximize your talents and you time for your own goals and future and not someone else’s lame idea of what’s what. That definitely comes up a lot in BJJ. Independence, stoic resolution and autonomous living. Matt and his wife started their businesses because that’s their crusade. No kids, just a business. Snohomish objected to a pole dance class in their downtown at first and Matt and Mariana had to struggle and campaign to make Aquarela acceptable. They still have to work, her as a librarian and him as an assembler. Jeremy, Damon’s instructor over at Team Mean Jiu Jitsu had to work construction for the first several years his studio was open as well. You really have to make the sacrifice and make it work yourself when you do jiu jitsu. The sport draws a lot of people who won’t let life crush them, who are entrepreneurs, go-getters, motorcycle riders, sex addicts, gamblers, players, street smart intellectuals, cops, bouncers, soldiers, ex-cons, edgy sorts who don’t equate being real with being rebellious because to them, they’re just pursuing the highest life. Maybe it’s learning your own body and limits and pushing past it that promotes the kind of outside-the-box thinking that also comes with taking those risks and creating that life. It’s the only mode for me.
Bridget reached out recently, soon to graduate, thinking about moving back to Seattle. It would be a trip to do another ride with your fuckdoll, especially after the last few years of head change. You relate to her more now than you did last time. That’s apparent in every phone call and that’s worthy of examination. The blunt and honest, savage, self-serving schema that Bridget shamelessly endorses is key to survival. She isn’t altruistic, warm and generous. She isn’t Cookie Dough. She isn’t Black Girl Magic by any means either. She isn’t any of them. She’s a hard-scrabble survivor, smart and savvy and makes no bones about that coldness. l wouldn’t want her to be the mother of any kids mine or hers.
Um, intellectually, in the centered place, when listening to my oldest self I wouldn’t want her to be the mother of any kids, mine or anyones. But damn, 8 or 9 months ago was that moment, when I woke up and my animal told me to make a baby with Bridget. I didn’t do it, obviously. But I got the call, the voice. Not like the ethereal noise, the spherical choice, the miracle voice that wet up Joan of Arc when she felt the spark. Not the schizophrenic orchestra call. The call of the wild. The DNA speak. My oldest self. My genetic phenotype was missing activation of legacy and the impulse was overriding. It doesn’t take a genius to look at that girl and see she's a killer. Sure, I smell her pheromones, smell when she gets wet and when she menstruates of course. More than that though I smelled predation from jump. I knew what she was at the handshake. If this were a thousand years ago, I could breed with her and be more than certain that if the baby came to term? It would survive the first 6 years. She’d kill anything on 2 or 4 legs that came near. Stock the larder, survive winters harder than mine. Then again 1,000 years ago I couldn’t have likely met her. Point a pistol at a globe, right around Saigon. Squeeze the trigger. Exit wound blossoms out right around Brexit. Real disparate immune system match. Real smart, deadly kids from that progeny-recipe. Prolly gorgeous and devious as well. I didn’t feel much past that though, in that moment. I didn’t wake up and fall in love with my FWB. Nothing like that. My DNA realized that contribution has become my constitution because I reached that stage. So what’s inside put that page to light and without social devices to tell me what’s wrong or right I stayed on animal sight. If I’m at the age where something ahead of me has to be left for legacy, then my business and my difference dispersed, the illicit verse can be my dent in the universe. Double down and beat the clock, get there first. Bridget is badass, but I won’t make her a mother-match. Just make her squirt and burst.
Fuckdoll wants kids, to be domestic down the road. Now is 26 for her. Now is school and career and no need for men except for a few hours at a time, a weekend at most which is where I fit in. Now is 40 for me and I can’t slow down. At the end of this life I would love to be in an orthodox relationship, someone to take care of and to take care of me, but for now there’s too much to get done. Kids would get in the way for me. Let Bridget find her forever man later, when she wants family. I won’t tell her that I don’t think she should be a mom. There’s so many things I can be honest with her about and vice versa, because that’s the nature of a brutally clear and unabashed dynamic. That’s what makes her my fuckdoll. That and her fear of intimacy, which makes for a unique sexual chamber because she doesn’t like maintaining eye contact, in or out of bed and has to detach. It’s odd, but she has those moments when she’s on, but that’s when it’s just about the physical. Hence to please her I have to objectify her. She doesn’t require degradation or abuse, but rough sex, objectified, explicitly just my warm fuckdoll is what she needs for release.
Knowing that rag-doll sex with and without further intimacy before and after is a common hook in sexual melody alerts me to how much blunt honesty a woman requires during conversation. The more raw the sex is, the more real she wants the conversation to be. Women who do a whole range of intimacy, from sensual to extreme kink and open every chamber, sensationally like they’re trying to out-soak every other hedonist are typically women who want the whole tapestry on the mental connection. Women who want it rough, fast, hard, objectifying, tend to want the raw, blunt talk, but that doesn’t mean they want to know everything. There’s a common rhythm to how the back-and-forth goes in conversation and in bed and analyzing women and our dynamic reveals whole new waves and tracks that I’m sure have far-reaching applications elsewhere. High impact verbal dynamics has always leaned into the tongue-as-a-mouth-penis sphere, but I just didn’t have the curriculum outlined before. All of that experience can be reverse-engineered for teaching content. Only way an obsessive autodidact can be content.
Published 1st Feb 2020
Author's Note
Exactly what the title suggests. How I get through the days
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