NIGHTMARE HOUSE

  by Phillip O’Sullivan

 

 

 

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An appendage of dreams. A dwelling of terrors. A house as divided cannot live in itself. A place of concupiscence and birth. A fortress of stolen services. A male brothel feasting on a botched divorce of soul and spirit. A mingled grief.   How has happiness so dreadfully fled from us? By creeping nightmares of the soul. This distinct harrowing. An harassment of wretches. Non-existent….

 

 

 

Non-existent, he mused incredulous on his tongue of vaguer raspings.

 

 

 

Yes, yet, existent too- for we lived there alone; each as alone as everyone ever is himself alone, are alone. As husbanded and swived. Together-not, the stalking of battered dreams. Forever alone.  A bitterness alone, that gall can swallow. I did not love you. You did not have any idea at all of who or what I was. Neither did I know myself. For one extremely dreadful reason. The criminal female who accosts boys, infants and children.

 

 

 

Telegraphing an absent sleep in an absent night.

 

 

 

Nevertheless he said ‘I lived there for years in the twilight of sleep. A sleep that failed to sleep; awake to its own alert terrors. A vaguer and filled-out horror. A Mr Kurtz died in his arms of rest; like a baby asleep. In dreams so vast and endless. Along with the house of panoramic kitchenettes. Their grey dust and grime overwhelms.’ Thinking as he did, sleep again betrays me, that botch elicits only a leaden vision. Dull and heavy. Heavy to drab. Drab to bad. Sad to maddening. Outlook for today: THE WEATHER! Miserable to slightly kind in the afternoon.

 

 

 

Lived there for years in the twilight of sleep. Doing anything. But all without direction. What has love got to do with it? Where do we end when the end of ending comes? If it comes at all. As deep in the night the green-roomed house with empty rooms beckoned my visit. In the daytime looking out of the day-room house there shaded next door but nought the nightmare presence. Invisible to all conscious self. Carrying on normal took entire effort. A lifetime telescoped together like a sustained error. All this constituted ‘normal’ existence. A staining of often times terrors and errors, mistakes and misshapen horrors: no bon mots to innocent our guiltinesses. Multiplied as fractions of a fast cosmic sin. Being married for us was the deepest offence even to crime. Crime being more honest than marriage.

 

 

 

Forgotten and anonymous a house without an address. A building of wood and concrete fallen off the truck of living things. An R.D. postbox without a road to stem the tide of longing. Without at all the countryside, nature, habit or fierce desire to compel one toward or propel forward a directionless horror invisible to all. Most of all the author of all misfortunes. All, all, all taken together, the downfall of many, (like a communism of mind) not-to-know what fate befalls us, what fat fate befell us, what fatted sacrifice called to us maddeningly in its intensity. A longing lost ghost wailing its marital despair. As in houseloads of suburbs wailing and bursting houses built utterly of despair. A misconstrued, contrived despair coloured in City Council daubs for private property, by order, a compelling, legislated, compelled wailing, obligatory, wailing and wailing – but all silently; terror struck, held down and murdered alive in the throat.

 

 

 

Suburbs of our divorces built but not lived in. An expectancy pregnant with pauses. The longish pause that destroys action. A botch of a pause. Causing all sorts of marital mayhem. The memory thereof; legalese for forgetting. Blocked houses built, yet not lived in or of livid fury, monster hatred, despised of, in. Boarded and designed with criminal intent, an architects revenge on wayward humanity. The swarming mistakes that misshapen lives lead in leading astray. Themselves, then, a botch, Mr and Mrs Botch.  Dwelt, yet not dwelt in. Houses.

 

 

 

Whole suburbs of green kitchenettes, greener, duller hallways, and institutional green bedrooms by the mile, kilometre (who killed the metier? Who killed MY metre?) by kilometre. By murdered kilometre, measured murder, a thousand murders dragged into butchery by moral divorces from reality and society. Back rooms and side rooms slaughtered for the upkeep: verandahs without hope. Give up your last. It is inevitable, floating dreams as stolen nightmares, on the exchange of the global divorce.

 

 

 

As to sleepwalking in dreams, the dreamer dreaming nightmares of horror, a botched rest, wrestled from murdered reality. A dog barks. The normal normally intrudes like a rude stranger. No more dogs bark. The murderer stalks the dogs dream now. His bark throttled in his throat. No bark can come out. The city of terror is full of silent sleepers.

 

 

 

Stolen scream die in their murdered throats.

 

 

 

The years lost; what story could it tell?

 

 

 

Sleepwalking belongs in dreams. Dark flooded dreams gelid with a criminal light.  An unswallowed billowing of oceanic imagery; houses of dread that float buoyantly in nightmares. Remote to the dreamer. Removed from the sleeper by the mechanics of rest. An uneasy remoteness. Stark in its benign simplicity. Horror and terror will live here to invisibly haunt your waking years. It seems to say. Saying all that it seems. Its seamless seeming beguiles the criminal sin of wakefulness. Awake falls asunder. Gentry feels for plunder. The poor steal from themselves as all reason sleeps akimbo amoung them, her virgin caresses slip the knot of joy. My kingdom is awake. Sleep is an empire. A tyrant rules in the green house. Remote too, yet attached alongside in the middle. Between us there is no love lost. It was not found there before nor after. We never had it. A criminal marriage, without even lust; to a purer divorce. A painful breaking of anything human. A discourse of strangers totally out of sync.

 

 

 

The day house and the eerily green night house; they are absent now. Gone before long so that the small coinage of information derived from their memory can amass a small recompense to the horrified dreamer who once lived two lives. Putting its structure together took time. Time unravelled its sparse treasures. Here a little, there a little and an edifice of sensibility is built up. From whence we derive more intelligible horrors. Throwing askance that democratic hope all justice dwells in the hearts and held-out arms of women. For women did but cause this as to whom-to-blame. And I for one will not have you at all forget it. A house without an address has no owners. It belongs to no one’s story. It just is. It happens to be. Expand this as you will. Interpreters welcome. There is no forgiveness without asking.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A set off of houses. Houses set back from the road. Houses sent back to their owners. A truck that fell off the back of a house. All these equations surely tell us that life is livable in houses. But the house of our soul is often just a botched house. Fuller than dreams are of nightmares and green terrors. A network of houses wind up the valley, a city valley climbing a steep slope, always sinuous, twisting and turning, gyrating in the furious storm of criminal chance. Alive in the mind. Which one belongs to me. Where are we in this? Is this one ours? Who is moving in then? I thought I owned a number in my dreams, nightmares revealed none are mine; I do not belong in these terrors anywhere. Is loneliness with a wife who is not a wife that bad? Whose house is it anyway? I had to get my own; it took a decade for the terror to awake into daylight.

 

 

 

This knowledge is only in dreams and if incorrect is a criminal stealing thunderous depredations upon the soul of day life. Each night leaves darkest trace within the day house. The day house besmirched by the night house. Kissed with its own clammy greenness. Like a pure sanctuary with an alehouse next door. Belching hops breath onto the virgins beauty. Invisible to all except in war and death.

 

 

 

The unbuilt house leaves scars on us all.

 

 

 

PHILLIP JOHN O’SULLIVAN

 

 

 

 

 

New Amazon Kindle ebook: Click on Book Image to view or HERE

 

 

First book in them a s c u l i s t  FEMINIST Series by Phillip John O’Sullivan

 

First book in the m a s c u l i s t FEMINIST Series by Phillip John O’Sullivan

 

From a life of broken fragments.

In a world dominated by feminism.

A weak man becomes strong.

Writing fierce masculist ideas.

 

Searching a big library like Massey University system catalog Phillip O’Sullivan found over 403,300 entries for ‘feminist’ texts by over 300,000 female writers and academics. While only two books by onemale author Dr Warren Farrell featured under the ‘masculist’ term. He determined to write his own. Facing down the Professors on the Politically correct Fine Arts Course.

 

m a s c u l i s t FEMINIST’ is the result of that costly encounter. This is what men do. Take the hard knocks for the greater good.

There are three stages to masculist thinking so far; analysis and description, interpretation and fierce polemic (stirring the troops; rousing the men) and thirdly; solutions for politics and victory. We can win this! And more importantly, must win this for the good of all; feminism otherwise is destroying us. This book explains copulation over population.

Warren Farrell’s Myth of Male power’ I can recommend: it is full of useful masculist facts. However, his interpretations and ‘solutions’, cannot be masculist ones but feminist in flavour.

 

Which is where m a s c u l i s t FEMINIST comes in. This book provides the fully fledged masculist politically aware gender consciousness point of view entirely for men.

 

Because real male rights placed back into gender politics can create arguments for men’s right to power.

Men must learn to talk this masculist language of policy, for the language of politics is policy. And masculist politics depends on good and powerful arguments. Like copulation over population

 

Read this book for the sake of the women and children in your family.

Be the man in a mind full of strong ideas.

IF Men acted like FEMINISTS!

 

 

PHILLIP JOHN O’SULLIVAN

New Amazon Kindle ebook: Click on Book Image to view or HERE

 

First book in them a s c u l i s t  FEMINIST Series by Phillip John O’Sullivan

First book in the m a s c u l i s t FEMINIST Series by Phillip John O’Sullivan

From a life of broken fragments.

In a world dominated by feminism.

A weak man becomes strong.

Writing fierce masculist ideas.

Searching a big library like Massey University system catalog Phillip O’Sullivan found over 403,300 entries for ‘feminist’ texts by over 300,000 female writers and academics. While only two books by onemale author Dr Warren Farrell featured under the ‘masculist’ term. He determined to write his own. Facing down the Professors on the Politically correct Fine Arts Course.

m a s c u l i s t FEMINIST’ is the result of that costly encounter. This is what men do. Take the hard knocks for the greater good.

There are three stages to masculist thinking so far; analysis and description, interpretation and fierce polemic (stirring the troops; rousing the men) and thirdly; solutions for politics and victory. We can win this! And more importantly, must win this for the good of all; feminism otherwise is destroying us.

Warren Farrell’s Myth of Male power’ I can recommend: it is full of useful masculist facts. However, his interpretations and ‘solutions’, cannot be masculist ones but feminist in flavour.

Which is where m a s c u l i s t FEMINIST comes in. This book provides the fully fledged masculist politically aware gender consciousness point of view entirely for men.

Because real male rights placed back into gender politics can create arguments for men’s right to power.

Men must learn to talk this masculist language of policy, for the language of politics is policy. And masculist politics depends on good and powerful arguments.

Read this book for the sake of the women and children in your family.

Be the man in a mind full of strong ideas.

Masculist or masculinism? What is it?

Well, women have a‘politically aware gender consciousness’ which collectively speaks for them. That ‘politically aware gender consciousness’ that claims to speak for all women is called feminism.

What do men have? Until recently, very little.

Search a big library like my Massey University library system where Phillip O’Sullivan found over 403,300 entries for ‘feminist’ texts by over 300,000 female writers and academics. While only two books by one male author Dr Warren Farrell featured under the ‘masculist’ term or label. This label should really become to mean something to men..

His book ‘The Myth of Male power’ I can recommend: it is full of useful masculist facts. However, his interpretations and ‘solutions’, cannot be masculist ones but feminist in flavour.

Still, we have a big fight on our hands and a long way to go.  Though it is growing. Join the fight now before it becomes fashionable.

Support men as MEN. We can destroy feminism first by killing its effect on our own minds. Read mind food that performs that function best. This book is a GREAT start to that. It contains some thoroughly shocking ideas that only angry men will get.

Which is where the m a s c u l i s t FEMINIST arguments Series comes in. This series provides the a fully fledged masculist politically aware gender consciousness point of view.

. Because real male rights placed back into gender politics can create arguments supportive of men friendly policy and therefore funding, support and finances for mens health and other initiatives.

Men must learn to talk this masculist language of policy, for the language of politics is policy. And men friendly policy depends on good and powerful arguments.

 

The political conclusion to this book also could shock you.

It is nothing less than the reality based claim of men to power in the public sphere, and thus fully deserving of public respect, privileges and honours

Are men only interested in sex, violence, war, destruction and hatred. As feminism holds. Find out here.

Are men only male chauvinism bigots bent on dominating power to overcome women and rape them?

All of these images of men are given out by feminism.

Is there any truth to those feminist views of men? Entirely new views and arguments as powerful as anything on this website

Feminism dies an awful death before your eyes in this EBOOK

Get it now; 

 

 

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