a series of desires gives birth to a book.
chapter one. i am the cat without the grin.
she is made of an aged paint. of the kind that peels off the sides of warehouses where the homeless come to hide and will most likely die. the drips which form colors of a hue that matches the organs i see when her flesh comes off in strips around my feet. and the scent of it like some sex attempt that neither side desired but followed through with out of some attachment formed to prior heat. but lust is a bitter metal with which to build. she is made of a thousand shifting lines that don't quite make sense. of the kind that crawl around on the inside of one's eyelids after their head hits the ice. the scene of it like some murder attempt that nature desired then turned it's fancies elsewhere and left the poor creature alone to nurse it's twisted bones. her thumb sinks into my ear accompanied by the sandpaper and silk chords of her throat. a starving symphony of crickets that devours anything else i might hear. 'this offer is a misfortune. finger's often dance upon chests but hardly ever in them.' yet skirts often rustle in the wind and sad that this should be more meaningful than if it was instead hands that stirred beneath them. so with every unsteady press of those eager lungs is born one more page to be read in that escape which we all must come to be familiar with as sleep. he is an oiled hinge. of the type that makes not a sound as infatuation slips in.
she is made of an aged paint. of the kind that peels off the sides of warehouses where the homeless come to hide and will most likely die. the drips which form colors of a hue that matches the organs i see when her flesh comes off in strips around my feet. and the scent of it like some sex attempt that neither side desired but followed through with out of some attachment formed to prior heat. but lust is a bitter metal with which to build. she is made of a thousand shifting lines that don't quite make sense. of the kind that crawl around on the inside of one's eyelids after their head hits the ice. the scene of it like some murder attempt that nature desired then turned it's fancies elsewhere and left the poor creature alone to nurse it's twisted bones. her thumb sinks into my ear accompanied by the sandpaper and silk chords of her throat. a starving symphony of crickets that devours anything else i might hear. 'this offer is a misfortune. finger's often dance upon chests but hardly ever in them.' yet skirts often rustle in the wind and sad that this should be more meaningful than if it was instead hands that stirred beneath them. so with every unsteady press of those eager lungs is born one more page to be read in that escape which we all must come to be familiar with as sleep. he is an oiled hinge. of the type that makes not a sound as infatuation slips in.