Post by Steve on Sept 24, 2005 6:45:19 GMT -5
a buzzing...more urgent than the flies hover to and fro above and passed my face. to the left, above some rancid pizza box, the crust decaying in shades of green while the cheese metamorphes into an unsightly red, theres a thin spider, like the one that bit my thigh some 17 years ago, twitching in it threads. a fly, green shimmerin like slick wet frog drying itself in heat of olympic sun, frantically waves its legs as though to astounish me into assistence- i am not a good samaritan, i am not a good soul, nor good human, i watch as the process begins with growing anticipation.
there is wine chilling in the fridge.
she walks along her tight rope, thin legs of anarexia balancing on silk so fine not a human use for it yet, and kisses him on the back. weaves him a blanket, warm, tight, restricting like the womb. she licks her legs, for what reason i do not know, and resumes wrapping him, she fears he may soon go into hypothermic shock like wild traveler hidden in the alps. kisses, licking, fear drips from him like the sweat of a mule. it is now that he sees there is no hope in me, he gives up on me, his eyes fading beneath the shroud of thickening white-like the mystical fog i have so dearly dreamt about being lost in, speaking to Orion of the east and kissing his belt because it is the only heavenly thing i have left-casting eerie nothing-more nothing-less all is all and this is it glares towards me as i sit pondering his time left.
an organ slips from his thorax, thin infant-penile emitting white cylinders that gather on its tip like the pollen collected stamen of a may flower.
the webbing confines these, they gather in myriad numbers, in lyrical quickness of love they collect on its end.
she brings him up to her room, a rivene beneath an old flyer tossed aside on the nightstand after being retrieved from the mailbox, and i get up
to check on the wine.
there is wine chilling in the fridge.
she walks along her tight rope, thin legs of anarexia balancing on silk so fine not a human use for it yet, and kisses him on the back. weaves him a blanket, warm, tight, restricting like the womb. she licks her legs, for what reason i do not know, and resumes wrapping him, she fears he may soon go into hypothermic shock like wild traveler hidden in the alps. kisses, licking, fear drips from him like the sweat of a mule. it is now that he sees there is no hope in me, he gives up on me, his eyes fading beneath the shroud of thickening white-like the mystical fog i have so dearly dreamt about being lost in, speaking to Orion of the east and kissing his belt because it is the only heavenly thing i have left-casting eerie nothing-more nothing-less all is all and this is it glares towards me as i sit pondering his time left.
an organ slips from his thorax, thin infant-penile emitting white cylinders that gather on its tip like the pollen collected stamen of a may flower.
the webbing confines these, they gather in myriad numbers, in lyrical quickness of love they collect on its end.
she brings him up to her room, a rivene beneath an old flyer tossed aside on the nightstand after being retrieved from the mailbox, and i get up
to check on the wine.