There was a woman in the jungle
And a monkey on a tree.
The missionary man he was followin' me.
He said "Stop what you're doing."
"Get down upon your knees."
"I've a message for you that you better believe."
Schedule:
Free Substack released to your email Monday & Wednesday.
Private Substack released to member’s email Tuesday and Thursday. This is the best and easiest way to support the writings and grassroots efforts found here.
Winston Lighters / Collection One
Limited edition, hand crafted lighters release May 5th.
This collection will have 10 pieces. All unique, one of one.
Paid subscribers early access May 4th. There will be an early look in the next email.
Temptations in Target
I said “yes sir” over the drive-thru speaker. This is a product of southern upbringing that’s brought me more trouble than love as of recent. Especially when I say it to an identity struggling middle ager. It can go as so:
“Yes ma’am,” then the response,
“ma’am?! I’m not that old yet!”
And today it backfires too as at the drive thru I said “yes sir,” then when rounding to the window I was met with chopped hair, female cheek bones, a flannel shirt and smug look that said, “gotcha!”
St. Anthony looked the demons in their faces. They beat the shit out of him. He survived. Then he laughs. “If you had any power, only one of you would be enough to kill me; but the Lord has taken away your strength, so you want to frighten me by your number. The proof of your powerlessness is that you are reduced to taking the form of senseless animals.”
They all came for him. One that came in the form of a beautiful woman. Slick hair, soft skin, sucking lips, an hourglass figure tempting enough to pounce, rabbit injected with viagra, declare Farewell to God. Only when looking at her below the knees, our Anthony spots claw like feet. There the spell is broken and God wins…
Self isolated into a tomb not for peace but to amplify temptation.
For the man that wants to toughen his skin to a bullet-proof level shouldn’t run from the bullet but instead take - at first - a small airsoft gun, shoot himself over and over and over - Then a bb gun. Repeat. Let the skin thicken. Run towards the bullet.
And thus Anthony - running towards the Devil. The original Desert Monk laughing at demonic tempters, “Here is Anthony. I do not flee your beatings nor pain, nor torture; nothing can separate me from the love of God.”
A Good Fellow. And I am walking around Target looking at ‘decor.’ Hath man fallen!
This retail my tomb of temptation? Yet there are demons here. I saw Joel Olsteen’s home. He invited me in. He sold me a bumper sticker. It was dipped in Holy Water. It was only $19.99.
In Target cursed with sight and this heavenly eye sees mangled entity on the shoulder of another shopper, I see the ghoulish maroon figured on the back of another. Having a schizophrenic breakdown, walking a thin line, the doctors will say he snapped… I look to my lady, she’s studying duvets and I wonder her method of judgement. May she pick a good one, may she have enough peace to focus on that while I protect her from the entities treating this retail hell as a playground.
Read my books:
— Celebrating the Funeral (Paperback $20) ($60 Signed)
— The Aesthetic Archetypes ($33)
What happens when you turn the devil down? Does he get more hungry? Belly aching, phantom appetite - with billions of souls to seek it’s still scarcity that the Devil operates. For will one soul not gained bruise his ego? He doesn’t seem like the type to Let Go easily.
I take a sip of the in-store Starbucks and feel like Constantine, a spiritual detective, I drink my coffee and scowl and watch closely the entities controlling fleshly bodies for they’re not to be trusted.
“Neither am I” I say outloud as I put a three pack of UBrand ink pens in my pocket. Looking to my shoulder I see a confused being. ‘Skin’ a rippling translucent white with red ink blots. I think evil thoughts and the red thickens, I think holy thoughts and the white takes control.
Here on my shoulder is the parasitic slave to my free will. For the demons and angels sit not on opposing shoulders. They, It, exist on one. Molding, changing, evolving as a result of what we Choose to do.
For I am stealing ink pens. Will I soon see gnashing teeth, rabid saliva from my shoulders inhabitant? Will it be more subtle. The slope is slippery. I dance up and down it, hoping it’s to the music of Gabriel’s trumpet.
With Love,
Winston
Mr. Stray Cat
The Underground Preacher
bet she picked a beautiful duvet