Mr. KUTZKY
Bio
All things dark and strange, the beauty of complexity, the isolation of integrity. Honest articulations on the perks and pitfalls of both. Keep your mind sharp and a sword to your heart.
Stories (25)
Filter by community
Dear Saturday Morning
Dear Saturday Morning, It was like a light bulb that was about to burn out had been croaking death for hours. I hated waking up to the sound of my dad thinking. That poor brain, why he tasked it to a mission he was miserably ill equipped to handle is an irony all to its self. Stupid is as stupid does.
By Mr. KUTZKY7 years ago in Poets
Meeting Her
Now this one here I've been waiting for, for some time. I have held her within my mind since I first graced her face. My format for my lovers eternally specific, but for her temporarily I surely will ditch it. Purely a man thing, I lust endlessly just to hit it, hit it and quit it, but not in a rushed fashion, for I'll savor my rations. I'll explain the circumstances and criteria before we ravish rather lavishly one anothers' interiors. Her to me, my mind, and me to her, her crevice and behind. I suppose her mouth as well, but all the intimate details to you I won't tell.
By Mr. KUTZKY7 years ago in Filthy
If I Met Lana Del Rey
One of her tales ended one of mine, knew I not it was her lines at the time, Impressed I was by the rhyme but not the victim implications of the line's inclinations. It’s always choice, choose or abuse, a notion in her lines later on, on her had dawned. When I finally came to find her the script mistress of the lines I had once witnessed, meeting her my heart insisted. Knew I though the way it had to go; long held dear are always the foretellings of my fortuneteller. I had to compel her to make her introduction to me, this part of how it must be. Venus first house to those wishing details of the fortuneteller's tales. Now how I get her to harbor interest to a degree of such seduction, that she to me makes her introduction, would take a high rate production. She definition of class, not something she'd boast but most would have same said answer if asked. A bar she be to quality and inner honesty, not simply just the heart handed through script, but how to too have heart when handing it. Her magnificence and grace not why I wish her embrace, these qualities not lost on me, however what be the magnetism pulling to her the me are her inner understandings and subtle intensity. Some suspect opposites attract, not certain I am this true, but certain I am some do like to tell you it's fact. Now whoever states such statements may very well have simply misinterpreted the similarities between he and/or she. This lack, mine not to attack, perhaps some favor it's flavor, but I of the opposite inclination. Love I do myself so much, the opposite I'd have no use to touch. I haven't any flaws that I haven't purposely selected, and to another half wit who might have it pin pointed and suggested that I've neglected and molested my beauty by not dropping them to make a new me, well these short sighted psychological suggestings, not of bother would I bother my stride offside to take up protesting. Now that we've clarified potential jesting, tell you I it her who I'd have me molesting, vulgar one could conclude such wording, though lingo not locked in a block, it's simply its connotation causing shock, what way I'd say of the way she'd handle my cock have variations to no end, she'd be my best friend, the clearness I seem to see her in be why my obsession’s session did begin.
By Mr. KUTZKY7 years ago in Poets
Chest; Nuts
I know why I had them place her in another land, I would have compromised her as a young man, my touch too much, and at tenderness I would have made her & myself a mess. The tempering of my temperament was meant for another nearly as wise, I remember when I met her eyes, returned from a self induced temporary abyss, I ventured back through the door to see what I had yet to be before. What she'd make, what she'd take, what I would have put at stake, lucked out in a lack of longevity. Then was the end that made me be. So shattered, heart battered, tears fluidly flattered, wet face in haste I left this place. Amongst my favorite to try and salvage and savor it, the skills introduced to me and who I just used to be a wanted and unwanted memory. Distill the skill and kill the pain, pursued was a wizards game, a true metaphor of alchemy I took upon performing on me. About a half a Jupiter cycle later the pen I'm still holding but in the hand of a man much more golden. Now I not a specimen you might want as your best friend, For those I hold in my heart I always have their back, but I'll always let you go if you let not go your lack. This behavior a bit rude, I could be a different type of dude, but that person not becoming of what I'm becoming. I hold a love for you all forever, but I love not not being clever. I've crafted my pace into a very specific taste. I know nearly no cups could contain me and not corrode, it it a pitfall of my self paved road. I cherish the words of a psychic, who said I'd meet someone who'd like it. This sophisticated mistress I think I've come to witness. As I said certainty can not quite be, for she lives not in the same land as me. I've still fortifying to do to my footing, so her behavior is interestingly off putting. I count myself now lucky to have had loves that have completely fucked me. My senses now sharp to the smell, in every soul I can tell the mark love has made and then determine if she of interest should it be that I should trade. Trade my cherished unaccountability to see what a potential could come to be. Most potentials hold of no interest to me, their end I can see, and I'd have to pretend to be a lesser version of me just so she'd release herself into her own magnificence, and then my fakery would make it be to me of no significance. The breaking of her heart held at the whim of when I decide no longer to abide to her favorite version of him. The pain this would have her hurled in I know to well, I'd rather live in that hell than inflict it upon another, so now ever vigilant I am on who'd I'd have as a lover. I know more & more who I long for, and I've lots to do while I wait, hell I have even maybe found her and feel no the urge to escape, grab her by her nape and have her so hard it'd be a hair away from rape. Not that it's still not something I'd love to do, it's just my steps more calculated and the need to have her have my heart immediately have dissipated. The eagerness of inexperience now tame, whatever evolves I'll still be the same. I'll keep you posted if the chestnuts get roasted, if the fire fires open like I'm hoping, if she gives me chills outside with a mind that's frightful, if she can be the she that makes me delightful. Til then, let it snow, let it flow, let it go and let it show.
By Mr. KUTZKY7 years ago in Poets
Den of the Knife
She pains at another one who longs not her love, perhaps she should have been fitted for a better glove, is it agonizingly the she should have tried harder to grow into a new fit, want not growth forsake she must her oath, the pain of what she'd deem as failure an inch more deep than not seeking upkeep. Perhaps she wiser than both and to another she should have made oath. Long I not her glove still wish I she'd fit her glove. This one so worn with silent blood, the brooding opposed to what could be in bloom leaves not much room for any hand I could extend. She sits in wounds and waits for the end. I can't sacrifice myself to be her best friend, I wish I was not one of the ones she wants, the state of me in sacrifice is one that haunts, though for me it is of capacity, it's not the highest use of what I have to be. What me, not like the he that she wants me to be has at stake is lost on her by what might be her mistake. I wasn't overly there when she made her vow, half my life I've simply wondered, how? Was the long for love too blinding for it's actual finding? Bless him for his initial sacrifice, but now what's the price? Two now robbed of all they deserve, and I in the middle expected to double the mistake built from what both neglected. Wish you may my skill, but never my life, a magician with a pen in the den of the knife.
By Mr. KUTZKY7 years ago in Poets
To Find a Key or to Simply Be
Do I just love me more than they do? Do I love them more than they do? No matter what's true true this question is manifesting in everything I do. I would have them have themselves held as high as they could ever try. I don't always have to ask why. I know thrusting ones soul into the sky is not a task lacking in complexity. Simple some say it could be, the certainty in such simplicity is missed on me. Minutiae is interwoven and sometimes frozen in the minds that wouldn't have themselves held in highest regards. Bowing a courtesy conceived in childhood as a command. Being young the most intricate experience of anyone. Each souls set of obstacles, intrusions, confusions and insufficient institutions a pollution to navigate, and parents people too, no guarantee they've successfully solved said obscurity, and thus every word that be handed to you as a key has to be checked for efficiency, it may unlock one door but can it do more? How far did they get with that key? What if you have more doors than he? Was it a she who made his key? Complications can pile up while the door stays shut. A lot leave themselves behind one door and their done. That room turns into all they can conceive as real, although their soul'd say otherwise, discernment dawns disguise to let them love their lies. Freewill favors all, it meets any in the middle whether you want or don't want to solve the riddle. Symbiotic without opinion, you can pass this by in any dominion. Choice is the choice to choose, what you don't know you can win you can never lose. The point is the pointless serve just as much purpose, worth is to you what worth is. It honestly is all quite easy, I just make it difficult to please me. So whatever your keys be, they're completely fine, ignore the door or search for more. To those who can't help but quest, the quest is as complex as the complexities that lead the quest to be. That is a paradox of endless irony. Don't assume all are consumed with the same desire to build themselves higher & higher. I know it's a tricky task to those ones I ask, but to those of you who can't help but pursue I feel for you, I know what it is you'll have to do, it's a long road from new. So to any kid who's kept on keeping here's to one day that we may meet speaking. We can gripe about what we long to grip and share wise keys we found on this trip. Til then my friend, pray we may know it all before the end.
By Mr. KUTZKY7 years ago in Poets
Rose, Fool, or Thorn?
Some things will change, and some things can never, how the hell else can anything ever be held together? Rose with a thorn, the sentence of death when you're born, bask in the beauty or brood in the certain, these and in between encompass every type of person. The roses lack of practicality can lead to a delusional reality. The thorn's ever eye on certainty can lead to a barren life of but scrutiny. Alleviate the lessening trait of each and magnificence you have breached. Living two opposites simultaneously, perhaps this is why change can and can never be. Paradox is just the word created by the inventor who could go no further, were there no indications to him that utter opposites could be symbiotic and not chaotic? Perhaps he was a thorn, a solution to his confusion could never be born. The question I think next is what would be the effects of paradoxes touching? Is there such thing as middle to their riddle, can the middle not be a diluted version of both? Can they Voltron into a Metatron? Is the Merkaba such symbolism? Such mental-ism & mysticism is it utmost realism? If you can admire beauty while hating its delusional effect, can you be an observer who also can interject? Is the delusion a certainty? Or will it ever whiter your scrutiny? Is this the genius of the fool? I am a rebel, can I outwit this rule? Is that what I am here to do? I hope I am not the only one who can conceive such conception, I'd need at least another one to achieve such perfection. The other one I hope has a nice bum, voluptuous jiggling boobs and a filthy genius mind that can over-cum this old concept of time. This has been my longing long before my learning. My rose broke and the Thorne thwarted my mind into churning. Despair and evil in once I was burning, but now it's fire has put me onto something higher where I can spot and love a liar. Some liars too much, their petals I opt not to touch, though some roses so innocent my no longer to pierce them so imminent, and the thorn though its brilliance I cherish, I watch it sway so many souls to perish. I've navigated it's nastiness with a method I made to out last it's wits. I am on a frontier now perhaps in the middle of a paradox. The wall on the edge of thorn, knocked down and here I am reborn. The Fool a favorable for those who find rose blind & thorn mind unsavorable. However the Fool a tool I could not seem to fit, so on the other end of a newly broken wall I sit. Alone for now but not forever, the horizons whisper of a certain sister, clever and in climb on way to this new design.
By Mr. KUTZKY7 years ago in Poets
Millennial Chant
I wanted to savor that one last sip of evil before they washed away it all and we walked hand in hand, heart in heart, into the futures call. I may be deranged in contrast to the norm but on my birthday an idiot wasn't born, least not into my body. I'd lobby my soul and being as a whole into synchronized direction as soon as certain was certain, I'm not a lesser kind of person. I won't belabor that fact, evil is the way I used to act, used to, used to, now I'm in with our new do. The archaic, we all betray it, try and teach us some farce we've got google to correct you in the pocket near our arse. Least most of us, wouldn't trust a front pocket phone carrying type, and the hip clip is some dinosaur shit, the kids have got it sewn & stitched, some maybe a thin skin bitch, but we know we've flipped the switch, least a few of us see the traces, the new common places, the sources of info, the dinosaurs barely know how to make go, we'll search any opinion you hold too strongly that we don't think belongs see, we're past listening to an old dumbass, keen on knowing exactly what he's seen, that closed loop is brain poop, the old jaded with the minds outdated are traded for open minds in these ever so open times. I can talk to a man in Japan in ten seconds flat, you had to wait ten days for a horse to hand a letter to where your wife be at. Ain't knocking the hooves and scrolls, just not gonna let these minds inclined to troll take control. On some spiritual shit, they might die and comeback to an understanding that had they now would have them have a heart attack, and that's just a plausible intertwined with overstanding. The truth the youth are demanding. I'm telling you hand in hand, heart in heart we are the new art. Accessibility, virility and departing from the pasts futility. The stage is set, what we don't want we forget, no long sought battles to dismiss what deserves but a cheek kiss as abyss swallows it and all it's uselessness. I'm telling you take faith in this youthfulness. The old's outnumbered, thirty percent shift, were causing a rift. Millennial's and those from the age of the internet are here to let the better and the best in, our numbers out number the dinosaur age of slumber, governments are being trolled, political systems dysfunctional and old. The end of anything looks like the worst of everything. Maniacs, morons, lunatics and dipshits have no more pawns. We're sitting this one out, we'll watch them scream and shout but they're not what we're about. New love, new systems, the old ones we on't miss them. Now enough of the beauty becoming, it's still yet to be seen and cemented in place, but it's a feeling if you feel to feel and embrace.
By Mr. KUTZKY7 years ago in Poets
Exile with a Smile
I'm glad the empire is finally falling. It's been a shade shy of useless for some time now, it will provide a contrast in the future for what we will never again. But for now it's on the forefront of it's imminent end. And I can't blame them for exiling me when they did. I was a light so bright I could only go out at night, even then it was a fight if I didn't keep my steps right. I was/am a penmen, used to be quill & it used to be quite a thrill, what I'd write would have me killed, be it that I wasn't so clever, seeing this empire fall in this body would I have never. Luckily during those times I had the foresight to fornicate with the late judge's wife, she swayed him away from giving me to the knife, exiled instead, God she gave good head. I'd lick her down to her toes & watch her cold heart melt from froze. She was no doubt ruthless, but truth is you had to be that way back in the day or you'd hold no position not washed with history's omission. Sure women couldn't work officially, but they're always the ones running things initially. She may have strayed but for groceries from the coup, but best believe her man ran her loop. She'd give me the scoop on who was watching & plotting my demise, I stayed wise and distributed my publications in secret, a secret I knew no one would keep it, but that too part of my plan, how my writings kept "terrorizing" the land, the higher ups couldn't understand. I guess satisfying the print shop keeper's wife wasn't the worst decision I had made in my life. She was a bit thicker but I liked how it jiggled when I'd stick her. She'd let me know when her husband was out for the night, and I'd go publish what I'd write. Father a forester who had links to pulp & paper, I used my own supplies so the only one that was wiser was her and our maker. I'd clean my mess, then deliver my press. Political, poetic and far from rhetoric, no one knew my name, but they read my words all the same. I kept them informed, sharpened their brains with art & truth, I was a wizard and a rascal in my youth.
By Mr. KUTZKY7 years ago in Poets
Lorenzo & Books
A Thugs Code Criminal, Christ! Convict, felon, thug, gangster, concluding titles cunts just namesters. If their amount of balls matched their amount of lingo, I’d be emperor, but I’m still king though. Born in a place long time I’ven‘t bared my face. Wicked, evil, unholy, anti-Christ, lots of hats that say I’m “not nice.” My birth buried my mother. I a spawn not from the getting on of a couple lovers. A junkie taken for evasion of payment, the equation equaling my arraignment. Somewhat raised by her failure of a father until a fire took a town house and a liar.
By Mr. KUTZKY7 years ago in Poets
New Brunswicked
Christ four more days and I’m outta here, this time it was the beer. I knew I shouldn’t of drank that shit alpine, I’m back in doing more time. This is becoming a second home of mine. I want to say I’ll never be back but I’m on a fucking looping track. I’ve hit this pit stop, four times since me balls dropped. As long as I’m alive I’m sure I’ll see stop five. It’ll probably be on some dumb shit like fucking up with some dumb bitch. Maybe I’ll try and get hitched, get married to a fine whore real proper and avoid giving purpose to a copper. Didn’t really even do much bad this round, but my record reckons me to impound. First stint was a B&E, second stint involved a burnt DVD. Third was absurd, never finger bang a nerd. Now I’m here on the fourth, they finally sent me up north. I was drinking as I do daily, work had failed to pay me, I suppose I shoulda shown up, actually if I had a job that woulda doubled my luck. No pay-cheque the bottle wasn’t drippin' a damn drop, so on my scooter I hopped, that’s right I’m a drunk and I scoot so I’m a fag, doesn’t matter cause I gotta get half in the bag. I mongo push to the west end to meet up with my best friend, I don’t even really like him that much, but he cashes the welfare and he’ll get me drunk so I don’t care. So finally I get there , he’s half sauced on a lawn chair. I say “yo what’s up Blair?” “You know man I’m just living the dreams.” Yeah that’s what half drunk on a lawn chair screams, he has liquor though it seems. “I came over to chill with you.” “Well grab a chair and a brew.” The chair was out back by the twelve pack, I grabbed four and he’s lucky I didn’t grab more, the pussies drinking bud light, I don’t even like em but I’ll drink em just to spite him, fucking bud light! I shot gun two and threw em in the bushes, this dudes gayer than me and I got mongo pushes.
By Mr. KUTZKY7 years ago in Poets
