The Masquerade
Sunday, April 22, 2012
The Dwindling Path
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Le Baiser Noir
They would sit together throwing shy glances at each other. Sitting there on the peer, his hands squeezing hers as they stared into the sunset. An old vision that so many romantics before them burned to comprehend were in the palms of their hands, entwined into their fingers. The sun set in a rise and the light reflected into a full spectrum of Aurora, a liquid blaze of the untouchable. This is how the serpent crawled from within her and escaped through her slithering tongue as they embraced into each other’s oral veneration and salacity.
They tasted of the salt in the air and the scent of eternity slid back and forth through their quick gasping kisses. His heart burgeoning with virile passion illuminated upon the smirk on his face. Her lips still bright red yet her cheek and his lips smudged with lust. She reaches for his cheek, pressing her lips on to his as she whispers carelessly into his mouth “Sometimes you remind me so much of him”. Before he is even allowed to breathe she plants her lips harder onto his, thrusting the rest of her body onto his. Her hand sliding down from his cheek on to his neck as she squeezes onto his throat lightly, stifling his attempts to breath, lovingly asphyxiating his expression. Sliding her upper lip in between his taut lips, biting down on his lower lip releasing her grip from his neck as she tears her lips from his raising her eyes to his. “ You know I love you” she says in conviction, her hand caressing his cheek again. Sliding her tongue across her lips she proceeds to say “I wish to close my eyes and pretend you are him but I know that you will never be him”. A grin emerging on her lips as she watches his muscles tense. Conflict burning in his eyes and in his spirit.
She continues to say “ So, I keep my eyes wide open and strive to rejoice in you but when I am in his presence at our short lived trysts, I love him with all the glory that my heart can muster”. His soul filled with torment and agony as he drops his gaze on to her breasts heaving up and down with each breath. His mind wandering and pondering the permission to indulge in the slow insertion of a dagger into her chest and to twist it deep into her concupiscence. He loved her deeply but she was completely incapable of comprehending the extent of his love for her. She was a festering pustule in his mouth but a pustule that oozed decadence and vaporous intoxication. He was admitted to suckling on this pustule and consuming its euphoria. He was also ready to suffer by its pestilence.
She on the other end took pleasure in pressing her lasciviousness and sin into his soul. It was her natural disposition. A completely shameless harlot that loved to dance in her self-made moonlight in naked splendor with sand beneath her feet, twirling and teasing until all of light and life was sucked in by her vampiric lips and lycanthrope snarl. Leaving a dazed and complacent blindness of rapture and tremors within the essence of the universe. The globe an oral fixation engulfed by her lewd lips that crave the little lusts and loves of the species.
Colors fade into black as everything in time fades into the Black Goddess, Kali.
One Hundred and Fifty and Six
Friday, April 29, 2011
The Garden of Immortals
As I walk through the shadows in the valley of death, this darkness no longer scares me. I am unstimulated by the darkness. I remain unperturbed by the lurking fiends. I wander on aimlessly. It is as if I remain on the verge. Just on the verge, needing to sustain equilibrium in my mind. I look around me in the pale darkness. The earth stained by the light of the moon. I seem to notice this for a moment then drift back into my mind. Returning into this place glazed with paranoia. There is nothing here but despair. Concentrating on the void.
Once the voices erupt they pick at the mind as a vulture would at the rotting brain of a carcass. I persist and put one foot before the other and walk a head. The mist engulfing all of my essence. Tragedy streaming down my face as I suppress the river of thought from flooding my mind.
The trees here have no leaves. The ground is murky and damp. The air cool and the wind steady. It is despairingly serene in the garden of immortals. The garden doesn’t wait, the garden doesn’t care. As I press on through the clammy soil. Fighting the thoughts in my mind. My eyes are cold and unassuming. Deeply embedded in them sadness and doubt. The soil here breeds dead leaves and weeds. My mind lusts for faded memories. A lying mind concealing the fate of others.
For a moment I pause and gaze up at the leafless tress. I am the gardens noxious insertion into its inertia. I am the tainted little daisy in its splendor of desertion. Its limerence for me. It has devoured me. I am its petite mort. The garden desires to prove its unwavering immortality.
There I shall be waiting for your decadence to elate me. There you shall be free from the condition we all suffer from so detrimentally. A warning before you do for when you slit the wrist of torment, blood will be splattered over you. The garden of blood. I of bone and you of sin.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
To A Dear Friend.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
The wake of Destruction
It's days like these,
When the weather breathes,
As mountains gallop above the rocking earth,
They shed their weight on the concupisent with heaving delight,
And in the heart it is wet with the blood of a thousand and a thousand more,
Ash filters the lungs conveniently
As it snows down on to the helpless souls which shriek into oblivion,
Damned in to the ever after