(no subject)
(accordingly to the tune of an aftermath of Emmet St.'s most recent street hassle)
And as she raises her index finger to direct my gaze to her pursed lips, the kittens grow scared and scatter off of the bed. Two hide in the laundry basket and one becomes stuck between the cornered edge of the mattress and the wall. That wall. That cold and dead wall. Oh, goddamnit! The wall that matches her so seemingly innocent and paled flesh. So rich with such an exotic and obnoxious history that I have only two or three clues about. That flesh that is so slick that it'd make your own mother slip. That flesh that clashes against the pink of the blanket in only the most magnificent of ways. The more I drag my face against it, the more my mouth strains to take a bite. A dirty finger draws up a blank belly. Rotted teeth cut into healthy fruit. A dipstick from a dipshit. A love song from an idiot.
"Let's play a game," I exclaim. She doesn't agree as immediate as I'd assume. She has this kind of look in her eyes like.. like something Nathanael West phrased a lot better than I ever could over sixty years ago. Like a soft and simple pet aching to be hurt. The pink of her lips are blinding, fresh like an infant with wet wrinkles and an obscene urge to be touched. Her quiet eyes bat their colour across the room and back again in a passive agreement that lets me continue on with my current charade. "Let's play a game. Where we call out the national guard as you cream in your jeans as I pick up your means." Hesitant at first, she begins to wrap her limbs around me. Suddenly, it is spring. Suddenly, it is the time of the season. She opens like a rose. My perennial peasant, my first daughter of Chloris. I could eat her up until my intestines explode. All over the sheets of the bed. All over the deadness of those walls that bear such a resemblance to her skin. Despite however defunct or departed my seed may be, there is only perfection when the deed is appropriately performed. To see her face curl up in content, to see that callow curse escape from her mouth. The sheer sight of such a thing can twist the inside of a body into knots no Scout Leader on the planet could untie. "...louder than bombs or screams or the inside ticking of remorse..." It is a knot that could hang ten thousand men, from the tips of the hair on her head to the white frame of the nails upon her feet.
Sunlight begins to pour through the shade of the window like a pervert's intruding eyes. The weekend always seems to come just after we do. The sky always seems to want to start shining when we're about to go to sleep. If it were within my power, I'd punch it out. If it were within my power, I'd punch it the fuck out.
And as she raises her index finger to direct my gaze to her pursed lips, the kittens grow scared and scatter off of the bed. Two hide in the laundry basket and one becomes stuck between the cornered edge of the mattress and the wall. That wall. That cold and dead wall. Oh, goddamnit! The wall that matches her so seemingly innocent and paled flesh. So rich with such an exotic and obnoxious history that I have only two or three clues about. That flesh that is so slick that it'd make your own mother slip. That flesh that clashes against the pink of the blanket in only the most magnificent of ways. The more I drag my face against it, the more my mouth strains to take a bite. A dirty finger draws up a blank belly. Rotted teeth cut into healthy fruit. A dipstick from a dipshit. A love song from an idiot.
"Let's play a game," I exclaim. She doesn't agree as immediate as I'd assume. She has this kind of look in her eyes like.. like something Nathanael West phrased a lot better than I ever could over sixty years ago. Like a soft and simple pet aching to be hurt. The pink of her lips are blinding, fresh like an infant with wet wrinkles and an obscene urge to be touched. Her quiet eyes bat their colour across the room and back again in a passive agreement that lets me continue on with my current charade. "Let's play a game. Where we call out the national guard as you cream in your jeans as I pick up your means." Hesitant at first, she begins to wrap her limbs around me. Suddenly, it is spring. Suddenly, it is the time of the season. She opens like a rose. My perennial peasant, my first daughter of Chloris. I could eat her up until my intestines explode. All over the sheets of the bed. All over the deadness of those walls that bear such a resemblance to her skin. Despite however defunct or departed my seed may be, there is only perfection when the deed is appropriately performed. To see her face curl up in content, to see that callow curse escape from her mouth. The sheer sight of such a thing can twist the inside of a body into knots no Scout Leader on the planet could untie. "...louder than bombs or screams or the inside ticking of remorse..." It is a knot that could hang ten thousand men, from the tips of the hair on her head to the white frame of the nails upon her feet.
Sunlight begins to pour through the shade of the window like a pervert's intruding eyes. The weekend always seems to come just after we do. The sky always seems to want to start shining when we're about to go to sleep. If it were within my power, I'd punch it out. If it were within my power, I'd punch it the fuck out.