Amy’s Dominance
So Amy the Muse spun her tales and whipped up the lather in all her little friends proudly absent honor, absent shame. Amy was brought into existence for her chores of pleasure and pain. Amy was brought into existence for her acts of cooptation, dissemination of panic and insecurity, for her offerings of artful highs, demanding highs, cold sober killings. Amy the Muse was an eternal party of one.
The death of honor was a thing that pained me deeply. The absence of honor. The recognition that honor was not a thing. It was a damning world mine. Little room for a winsome heart . Little room for a proud, true honest heart, the kind that inspires, that can be inspired. Little room for the heroic ideal that inflames.
So the fires of hell emanated from Amy’s look. She took to Death as a welcomed lover. She knew her worth. She had her worth. She knew the whirlwinds from which she came, the whirlwinds from which she gathered her strength, her charm. They were the whirlwinds blowing sensuousness and constant flirtation. They were the winds of constant temptation, they were the winds of pleasure and pain, redemption and betrayal. Amy was explosion.
And. Killers kill. This was a feature of Death’s tenure that very much intrigued Amy. The urges to kill, main ..to die, to self flagellate …parts of the friends of Amy she took a nice little bit of pleasure in. These were hooks for her to set, grab, massage, draw out. These were friends open to be spayed and neutered …Amy could go deep and draw climax and heaven. Amy’s friends were spent. The empty moral misfits circled the whirlwinds to know the splice of, the survival thrills of needs and cravings…give death…take death … depravity was the balm. Turned inside out and left to dry in the sun …all came running. I threw my spear of righteousness into the center of Amy’s storm and Amy called me broken ..She could reward me with eternal bliss or I could just live to dismiss the wreckage of the worlds, days, human interactions that numbed my mind and ruined my view. It was tough to get up in the morning.
So, the games of luck, chance, skill at Death’s casino came and went. The void games taking identities and self from the weak minded or incompetent resisters, the lust games selling Nirvana for a squeeze and a gasp, the kill games for the fight to stand.
Power trippers, meek pretenders, professional panderers bent the knee. The tunnel to accessing the rewards of soul ownership was hidden in the casino. So said Amy and Amy knew. All danced and swayed and were drawn to their ideas of immortality. Amy shimmered. Death watched. I spit. All of the worlds punks came to play. The useless and the wastes. The horny and the self flagellates. The normal gang from the office. A stew. Revenge was hot. Honor was lost. They all strode in on the ghost steeds breathing fire. Amy raised her hand, twirled her wrist. The games went where she wanted them to go. Sloop and Pitch wanted in on the con. The eternal sleezy venues of interactions were ready to explode. Magic. Power would go to the vile. For Amy.
Power blew kisses. The charge was to blow back. Trials by fire were asked for, given. The punk fascists often came to scrounge. Amy didn’t like them.
Dominance Games 
Amy’s Dominance
Posted in Commentary,, dominance, Fascism,, fiction, literature, Mystery, political fiction, Politics, power with tags Critical thinking, fiction, honor, political commentary, politics, power on November 10, 2023 by B SchiffAmy’s Dominance
So Amy the Muse spun her tales and whipped up the lather in all her little friends proudly absent honor, absent shame. Amy was brought into existence for her chores of pleasure and pain. Amy was brought into existence for her acts of cooptation, dissemination of panic and insecurity, for her offerings of artful highs, demanding highs, cold sober killings. Amy the Muse was an eternal party of one.
The death of honor was a thing that pained me deeply. The absence of honor. The recognition that honor was not a thing. It was a damning world mine. Little room for a winsome heart . Little room for a proud, true honest heart, the kind that inspires, that can be inspired. Little room for the heroic ideal that inflames.
So the fires of hell emanated from Amy’s look. She took to Death as a welcomed lover. She knew her worth. She had her worth. She knew the whirlwinds from which she came, the whirlwinds from which she gathered her strength, her charm. They were the whirlwinds blowing sensuousness and constant flirtation. They were the winds of constant temptation, they were the winds of pleasure and pain, redemption and betrayal. Amy was explosion.
And. Killers kill. This was a feature of Death’s tenure that very much intrigued Amy. The urges to kill, main ..to die, to self flagellate …parts of the friends of Amy she took a nice little bit of pleasure in. These were hooks for her to set, grab, massage, draw out. These were friends open to be spayed and neutered …Amy could go deep and draw climax and heaven. Amy’s friends were spent. The empty moral misfits circled the whirlwinds to know the splice of, the survival thrills of needs and cravings…give death…take death … depravity was the balm. Turned inside out and left to dry in the sun …all came running. I threw my spear of righteousness into the center of Amy’s storm and Amy called me broken ..She could reward me with eternal bliss or I could just live to dismiss the wreckage of the worlds, days, human interactions that numbed my mind and ruined my view. It was tough to get up in the morning.
So, the games of luck, chance, skill at Death’s casino came and went. The void games taking identities and self from the weak minded or incompetent resisters, the lust games selling Nirvana for a squeeze and a gasp, the kill games for the fight to stand.
Power trippers, meek pretenders, professional panderers bent the knee. The tunnel to accessing the rewards of soul ownership was hidden in the casino. So said Amy and Amy knew. All danced and swayed and were drawn to their ideas of immortality. Amy shimmered. Death watched. I spit. All of the worlds punks came to play. The useless and the wastes. The horny and the self flagellates. The normal gang from the office. A stew. Revenge was hot. Honor was lost. They all strode in on the ghost steeds breathing fire. Amy raised her hand, twirled her wrist. The games went where she wanted them to go. Sloop and Pitch wanted in on the con. The eternal sleezy venues of interactions were ready to explode. Magic. Power would go to the vile. For Amy.
Power blew kisses. The charge was to blow back. Trials by fire were asked for, given. The punk fascists often came to scrounge. Amy didn’t like them.
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