Mishka’s Mythopoesis

Blog #47: Sex With Pajamas On

Blog #47: Sex With Pajamas On

In lieu of spontaneous, original creative thought… here is an oldie, but a goodie……   The nice thing about sex with pajamas on is that: …you don’t have to worry about what to wear. …you won’t get a chill. …you can color coordinate. …everyone has sex naked; isn’t it fun to be different? …they’re very handy should you suddenly find yourself in need of a tourniquet. …it makes little static electricity sparks, creating a sort of mini-light-show. …you may not want to see your partner naked. …it just seems much more Christian—and, after all, isn’t that the whole point? …you don’t have to touch all that hot, steamy sex-flesh… (?) …it makes it harder for her to pull the hair on his chest. …it makes it harder for him to pull the hair on her chest. …they match the bunny slippers. …it allows for rough sex games, because of the extra cushioning. …they look much neater on a person than they do strewn across the floor. …it creates a slumber-party-like atmosphere, providing an exuberance for sex that teen-agers possess before they’ve ever actually had any. …if a fight breaks out, you don’t have to pause to dress before stalking from the room in a huff. …it prevents the spread of disease. …you don’t have to worry about offending your partner should she be the type to find nudity indecent. …the extra weight gives you traction, and helps you to maintain your balance and equilibrium. …you can’t tell if she hasn’t shaved her legs. …they absorb all that dirty-sex sweat, keeping the bed-sheets clean and sanitary. …the issue of tan-lines remains in question, adding an element of mystery to the sexual excitement. …you won’t experience the discomfort of sweaty flesh sticking to the kitchen table. …you won’t inadvertently forget what you’re doing and proceed to pop pimples on your partner’s posterior. …you won’t get that eerie feeling your partner’s nipples are staring at you. …you won’t have to worry that she might pinch your arm, because it won’t hurt so much through the fabric. …it really pisses off any voyeurs you might have in the neighborhood. …if you’re doing it in the road, you won’t get little gravel dimples in your back. …you don’t have to worry about whether your partner’s belly-button is an ‘inney’ or an ‘outey’. …if they’re footy-pajamas—the kind with the rubbery-type feet—you’re grounded in case any...

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Blog #43: Odin’s Ordeal (Day 5)

Blog #43: Odin’s Ordeal (Day 5)

Uh!  I suck at writing blogs… and—or… but, I mean… in the sense that I just don’t ever (rarely) do it…  I started off pretty well.  The first year, methinks I managed about three a month—of putting at least something out there… (in here…)  But now?  Oh, what the hell is the point?  (Nobody reads this shit anyway…)   So here’s some stuff I jotted recently:     Spells of Asphyxiation:  Warming Trend   “Uh!  I enjoyed that with all the profuseness of my generally darkly nebulous demeanor!” “So it was good?” “…It was okay…”       Vigil of St. Oswald  (2016)   I want to be anywhere else but here… though I know, when I get there, I still won’t be happy.       Just Peachy, Thanks!   “That… is a mighty fine looking peach you’ve got there!  But you’re far too conservative in your eating of it, methinks; don’t mind me—feel free to slurp vociferously if you’d like.” “Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no, no—I couldn’t.  I reserve truly slurpy sounds exclusively for very hot soup and oral sex… (if saying such isn’t entirely redundant!)” “Ah, so a Presbyterian then…”       That’s How Grandma Noonie Died  (#1)   “Holy crud!  You’re choking!  Are you okay?” “I’m sorry—yes, I’ll be fine.  I was just eating some almonds, and it always chokes me up a bit… you see, that’s how Grandma Noonie died…” “She choked on some almonds?” “No, I ate her.”       The One Who Got Away   —though doesn’t such imply I ever really had a chance with her?   …then, with so many years gone by, I see her gazing at me across a crowded room, an inquisitive twinkle in her eyes…   At first I think:  Is she wondering, as do I, about what might have been? …but then I think:  Oh, crap! How long have I been just staring at her?!…       from ‘More Than Kin and Less Than Kind’ (the novel I’m currently writing):   But the bear remained silent, staring off into the forest and absently scratching his belly. “Or not,” surmised Konstantin.  “At any rate, I must profess, ‘tis passing strange for us to meet a bear of your intelligence—let alone loquaciousness.  I’ve heard of such far away in the west, beyond the Karzelek Mountains, but—” “You think bears be unintelligent?” asked...

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Blog #39: Sacred to Felicitas

Blog #39: Sacred to Felicitas

    …he felt the fervent heat of her supple, living meat quiver jigglingishly against his direful pelage…   “Hm, about a quart low,” he mused laconically to himself…     # # # #   —Mishka Zakharin © 2016     http://www.amazon.com/Natalyas-Tale-Mishka-Zakharin-ebook/dp/B014AO0YWK/ref=sr_1_11?ie=UTF8&qid=1451148977&sr=8-11&keywords=mishka+zakharin...

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Blog #38: Egoic Introspective

Blog #38: Egoic Introspective

  “So, it’s been a while; anything new with you?” “My therapist says I’m a schizoid.” “Really? You have a therapist?” “No. Oh—and she also says I’m delusional…”   * Event Horizon   This is the Event Horizon of Me… where corporeity and spirituality meet— in dark and light, of great and slight, heavy and… well, light (again)… yin and yang, passive and aggressive, manic and depressive, sweet and sour chicken —just skip that last bit!— schizoid and whorish exhibitionist… love and hate, magnanimity and chagrin, pride and prejudice… Moby Dick, The Grapes of Wrath, Great Expectations —dammitbloodyalltohell! …and this thermos.   *   “This is all your fault!” “Oh, but my dear—my darling! …when I am tsar, I shall make you my tsarina!” “But what about my husband?” Laughing: “Oh, my dearest, darling, doobie-doobie-doo… who said anything about killing?”   *   …may I be filled with loving kindness… (…may there be fewer assholes…) …may I be well… (…may I be inured to the pain…) …may I be peaceful and at ease… (…don’t let the bastards get me down!) …may I be happy… (I know not what.)   *   Musings #6: an Infinitesimal Spasm of Being   Her belly was soft and smooth, pale in contrast to the dark, sunburned flesh of her face and arms and legs… her belly-button seemed angry, all knotted up—confusion, frustration, angst, and rage—as if fraught with belligerent notions of unraveling, to spill her innards in a soupy, stinking mess, dripping down her legs, splooching all about her feet…   Potemkin’s horns itch… Vronsky looms for various other scratchings… Groznyi succumbs to the Dark Energy of the Myriad Chilicosms and (inadvertently and epistemologically) becomes EVERYTHING…   Mishka faded away today—from a complete lack of ever doing anything… it would have all been very sad, of course, had anyone actually noticed.    *  Happy 2016?   # # # #   —Mishka Zakharin © 2015   http://www.amazon.com/Natalyas-Tale-Mishka-Zakharin-ebook/dp/B014AO0YWK/ref=sr_1_11?ie=UTF8&qid=1451148977&sr=8-11&keywords=mishka+zakharin  ...

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Blog #37: The Path of Totality

Blog #37: The Path of Totality

She was almost attractive, and you could tell she was bitter about the near miss… with a behind just a tad too generous for the hot-pants she sported—and a face to match! (Whatever that meant…) The only thing reasonably attractive about her was her neck: it was beautiful! Long (though not in a giraffe-ish kind of way) and smooth and thin and graceful and softly tanned and nicely moisturized but not greasy… Many were the men who had gazed longingly at her neck, only to find themselves forced unto the harsh reality of her sneering lips or cloudy eyes or pocked complexion or myriad, nubby breasts (like a cat, she had as few as four but as many as ten at any given moment, but always an even number) or her hair, like a splattering of dung by something that had eaten a lot of string. Instead of proper feet, she had lobster claws—but if ever she was caught with her shoes off she pretended she was from Maine; her accent wasn’t great, but she could sell it with how she smelled sort of fishy. Her name was Petra Oleaginos—of the New South Bedford West Oleaginoses (the ones from the old, upper east side in the north part of town)—and most everyone just called her Petra Oleaginos. It was, of course, not at all original, but then again—   Hoyt Dvorak wasn’t having any of it. “I’ll not have it,” he said in complete redundancy to the narrative. “It simply shall not be!” “It’s already done, you big hoyt-dvorak,” said Petra, pulling the muck of her hair away from her neck and whorishly thrusting her throat toward him. Seeing he was not to be mesmerized by her sultry neckedness, she festered glumly half a moment. “And, anyway, is it really so bad?” “To have my dreams shattered?” replied Hoyt, sprawled out upon the cold, snowy ground—in Christ-like effigy (sans the bleeding wounds, but complete with torn and tawdry loincloth). Hoyt Dvorak was like a fungus, only taller. “To have my hopes and desires stripped from me? Then where am I—what am I left with if I’ve been utterly bereft of everything that makes my life worthwhile?” Petra shrugged. “Eggs?” “Hm, yes, thank you.” Hoyt was barely mollified. Dragging himself up and burrowing into his coat, he sat down beside Petra on the park bench. “The dreams of your desires...

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Blog #35: Chunks of Sky (part 1)

Blog #35: Chunks of Sky (part 1)

—but before I get to that… in other news, I have the rough draft of Novel No. 3 (but that’s not what it’s called) finished… presumably—mayhaps… probably. And then—   Many, many, many years ago—in the bygone years of mine eldest youth… (i.e. ‘college’), I was sitting in an American lit. class at UW-Whitewater, and we were discussing the poetry of Walt Whitman. I thought of how ironic (and/or just extremely apropos?) it would have been if the poetry in his ‘Leaves of Grass’ had actually all been about grass…   But that seemed pretty hard. I mean, how much can you really say about grass? Besides, he already had the title covered… [Not that that’s stopped me since: Mishka’s Comedia, Mishka’s Decameron, Mishka Shakespeare, ‘Crime and Punishment’, ‘Anna Karenina’… butanyhoo…] So I contemplated about what else in nature one might write a plethora of poetry—and I came up with sky. But, incrementally speaking, in how would one describe sky? Well, clearly, ‘chunks’!   And so there it was: ‘Chunks of Sky’ (“Dedicated to Walt Whitman, whose poetry, quite frankly, I just never really cared for.” Oh, Well!) Of course, unlike Whitman’s leaves, all of my chunks would be in some way sky related. And over the course of several years I wrote (apparently) 79 chunks (though mayhap more were of a sky-related theme, but it was after I no longer pursued the collection)… but it has never appeared in print in its entirety. So I’m going to do that now. I started putting it together today—so I know not when such will be completed… hopefully yet this year. [“Wasn’t he working on some sort of ‘Mishka: Year One’ thingy?” – “Ahhh! Who are you?! How did you get in here!?” – “Nevermind.”]   So I’ll let you know when it’s ready and available—and, in the meanwhile, here’s a brief sneak-peek…     #2   Sturm and drang: rumble, rumble goes the thunder in the sky, tumble, tumble comes the rain; see the lightning flash so high— it strikes me down, I writhe in pain…     #5   A myriad of clouds randomly scattered across the sky: big and gray and chunky, like dirty, road-side snow. A determined blue complexion shines through the mess, pure and clean and clear; a contrast to the mucky cottonball clouds— ploch, ploch, ploch, just like a goddamned cow— splattered on its face....

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