Sometimes, I feel as if the world has moved on. Not beyond itself, beyond the constant turmoil of nature, but beyond me. The world has moved on and left me to the slow decay of those too weak or apathetic to keep pace. I feel worn, thin, very nearly translucent. The weight of my own bones is almost too much to carry, much less the burdens that drift along behind me, leashed to my waist, pulled through the choking dust of this deserted place. There are corpses alongside the road I walk, dead men in various states of decay. Their bodies tell a story, and each one ends with death most painful. None have starved, none have died of disease. Their bodies, perhaps, were finally brought to heel by these things, but the souls, the essence of these people, died in ways much, much more horrible. Each is stretched, worn, the muscles and ligaments detached where they have not rotted away entirely. Pieces of them lay scattered behind, the souls trudged on forward even as the bodies degenerated. The same way I keep moving across the blasted vista, toward distant mountains as unattainable as the sky above. They all fell, eventually, fell down and never rose, though they continued to claw their way forward. A few feet, a half mile, never any more. Even as I watch them, cautious as I am of the untrustworthy dead, I feel that weakness creep into me. The strength wanes, my steps become staggering, lurching motions, each more trying, more taxing, less rewarding than the last. I am dying, surely, and to you who find me sprawled out on the side of this cracked and broken road, I leave this behind. So that I will not be left this way, forever carrion for the scavengers. Left to wander, unable to understand that what bound me to the world is long since gone.
When I am dead, lay my body in the earth. For three days, let it lie close to the surface, and pray for rain. Sew for me garments of the finest silks, tailored to my limbs, that I will be presentable when I stand before the gods. On the third day, rouse me from the grave at dawn and wash the loose earth from my skin. Dress me, and build for me a pyre.
Let all my clan, my kith and kin, gather together. Let them drink and eat and revel. Let the music of this world lift their spirits, that they do not mourn for me. I will already be far beyond mourning. I will wait and watch and take heart from their joy. Let them pay their last respects and lift me on their hands onto my pyre. Lay my weapons beside me, for the road to On High may hold many dangers, tests to prove my worthiness. I will wait and watch, gathering my strength for the journey.
When I am dead and laid on my pyre, when the days of drink and food and music have passed, and my wepons lay beside me, let the men of my clan build a great fire. Let them feast once more, a beast freshly slain, and let the women take a torch from their flame and set it to my body. Let them shed no tears, but let them tell stories of my past deeds. Let them recall my triumphs. I will wait and watch, recalling the glorious of my life alongside them.
Let them tend the fire until dawn, swapping stories upon stories until, as all things passed from mouth to ear to mouth, they have become legends. When the fire has died, when the last of the smoke drifts up, let them gather my ashes and take them to the sea. I will wait and watch, content in what I have done.
Let them build for me a great burial mound and lay my ashes within. I will be buried near the sea, as my ancestors, that I will always have the clean, salt-tinged air at my back. Let them build themselves another fire, and rejoice that the deed is done. The children of my clan will race among the surf, the women tend the fires, and the men carve a stone for me with all my triumphs. A stone to stand the test of time, as my name will stand, as my memory will stand. I will wait no longer, watch no longer, for now I will walk a different road.
The burial done, let them move on, as I have moved on, as the world has moved on. Let them think, from time to time, of me. Let them visit where I last lay upon this world, and let them smile. I will watch from On High, at the side of the gods, at the great banquets in their greatest Halls. I will watch and wait for them to join me. I will feast and drink and revel with those who came before.
Do this for me, when I am dead, and I will hope to see the same done for you. Too many forgotten corpses lie alongside this road. Too few line those golden halls.
When the end comes, remember that.
Yours,
-S.R.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Monday, June 27, 2011
Exploration: A Poem
EXPLORATION
There's a place here,
Where a weeping willow overlooks
A bright, green pasture,
That I think you would love.
Not because of the contrast--
The inherent melancholy of the tree
Backed by a carpet of green
That's sure to bring a smile to your lips
And light,
Teeming,
To your eyes--
But you'd love it because you're an adventurer.
The limbs of the tree beckon you
To climb,
To scale its ancient body
And see what lies at the top,
And a tire swing hangs from one branch,
Tied to an aged rope,
Left behind by some long gone neighbor
Or some anonymous,
Mirthful god.
Beyond the pasture,
A thick copse of trees
Promises hidden treasure.
Perhaps elves live beneath
The shadowed boughs, flitting between
Trunks at twilight alongside fireflies,
Vanishing from sight,
Reappearing.
Or danger lurks,
Sinister,
Cowled in black,
In the dark corners.
And still it sings,
As all the unknown world must sing
To you,
To explore,
To conquer.
There's a place here,
Where a weeping willow overlooks
A bright, green pasture,
That I think you would love.
Not because of the contrast--
The inherent melancholy of the tree
Backed by a carpet of green
That's sure to bring a smile to your lips
And light,
Teeming,
To your eyes--
But you'd love it because you're an adventurer.
The limbs of the tree beckon you
To climb,
To scale its ancient body
And see what lies at the top,
And a tire swing hangs from one branch,
Tied to an aged rope,
Left behind by some long gone neighbor
Or some anonymous,
Mirthful god.
Beyond the pasture,
A thick copse of trees
Promises hidden treasure.
Perhaps elves live beneath
The shadowed boughs, flitting between
Trunks at twilight alongside fireflies,
Vanishing from sight,
Reappearing.
Or danger lurks,
Sinister,
Cowled in black,
In the dark corners.
And still it sings,
As all the unknown world must sing
To you,
To explore,
To conquer.
Poems About Boning
CLIMAX, RESOLUTION
She arches,
Back, toes, neck
Sinews stretching toward the sky
With fingers buried
In sweat-slick flesh.
Her nerves are lit
With fire,
Like snake venom crashing
In heady waves
Through her veins.
He shudders,
Tremors ripple down the length of him,
Something between the onset
Of hypothermia
And the aftershock
Of an earthquake.
Then silence,
An oppressive, wordless calm
Falls between them
And by the time she opens her eyes
He is gone.
LOVE, BITTER SWEET
Hers are eyes like spellbound lovers
Lost in silk-spun dreams
Of high adventure, amorous nights,
Sweat-soaked in spent ecstasy
She dances barefoot in the rain
A halo of lightning crowns her head
Hips sway along the breeze
Her dress clings to her thighs,
Unwilling to part.
Beneath the falling leaves, I loved her
Took her in the autumn moon
With hot tongue pressed to wetted flesh
She expels a breath
Where at once my lust was slain
A great, unyielding spasm came.
She left me all the same.
TREPIDATION
I’d swallow your venom
Until an abscess formed and my jaw
Rotted away,
The bone vanishing under the spreading
Infection like
Hiroshima after the blast.
I’d eat the festering pustules
Of your wrath,
Choke them down so that my body could
Break them and absorb them,
And take the disease into my own blood.
I’d weather the storm of your
Discontent,
While it tore at my sails and stripped the
Flesh from my bones,
Poured salt-tinged water on exposed muscle,
And dismembered me a limb at a time.
I would take every beating,
Every stinging word
Flung at me in a rage,
Like knives hurled in a circus.
Until I’ve been reduced to something
Unrecognizable and heinous.
There is only so much of me to destroy,
And I fear that loving you will
Leave me in tatters, ruined for everyone that comes later.
She arches,
Back, toes, neck
Sinews stretching toward the sky
With fingers buried
In sweat-slick flesh.
Her nerves are lit
With fire,
Like snake venom crashing
In heady waves
Through her veins.
He shudders,
Tremors ripple down the length of him,
Something between the onset
Of hypothermia
And the aftershock
Of an earthquake.
Then silence,
An oppressive, wordless calm
Falls between them
And by the time she opens her eyes
He is gone.
LOVE, BITTER SWEET
Hers are eyes like spellbound lovers
Lost in silk-spun dreams
Of high adventure, amorous nights,
Sweat-soaked in spent ecstasy
She dances barefoot in the rain
A halo of lightning crowns her head
Hips sway along the breeze
Her dress clings to her thighs,
Unwilling to part.
Beneath the falling leaves, I loved her
Took her in the autumn moon
With hot tongue pressed to wetted flesh
She expels a breath
Where at once my lust was slain
A great, unyielding spasm came.
She left me all the same.
TREPIDATION
I’d swallow your venom
Until an abscess formed and my jaw
Rotted away,
The bone vanishing under the spreading
Infection like
Hiroshima after the blast.
I’d eat the festering pustules
Of your wrath,
Choke them down so that my body could
Break them and absorb them,
And take the disease into my own blood.
I’d weather the storm of your
Discontent,
While it tore at my sails and stripped the
Flesh from my bones,
Poured salt-tinged water on exposed muscle,
And dismembered me a limb at a time.
I would take every beating,
Every stinging word
Flung at me in a rage,
Like knives hurled in a circus.
Until I’ve been reduced to something
Unrecognizable and heinous.
There is only so much of me to destroy,
And I fear that loving you will
Leave me in tatters, ruined for everyone that comes later.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Madness, Or, A Man Falling
Burn away the aching muscles, the straining nerves, the sweat and the slick and the stained sheets tangled around tangled limbs. Brush off the lingering quivering of nervous systems in slow-motion, too enraptured with this lascivious act to realize the dance is done, the scene has ended, the curtain and the libido that held it open have reached their pinnacle and toppled. Boil it all down, smaller even than the parts. Delve, perhaps, beyond the sadistic crush of teeth and stabbing fingers. Deeper than the need to feel pain mingled with pleasure, heightening sense like methamphetamines to the point of mania. Deeper than dialated pupils, stretching the limits of ocular lenses to take each other in, soak in the sight as if the mere act of looking could confine every contour of our bodies to memory. Boil it all down and I'm a lecher to your psychotic.
I will feed off you, the way you mold words around your tongue and form them with your lips. I will feed on it as if I am digesting those creations of my own volition, and lust for it as if those words were the iron length that twitches between my thighs at each slurred, sultry syllable. I will eat your words and wish you'd eat me.
Perhaps, then, this is symbiotic. This exotic, no, erotic, no, neurotic display. Is it platonic or a tonic for the chronically chained. I'm all prolific, narcissistic, full of septic disdain, but it's endemic. I can't end it.
You call flaws what I call flawless.
I will sing you songs of sailormen lost, of storms that whip and winter frost, of whirlwind passion, raging hot, siroccos, pain so cruelly wrought, and love so deep that time forgot. I'll sing a web until you're caught. I've hungered now for stranger times to seek my throne between your thighs and plant my grin in bourbon eyes. To supple breast with wicked lips, a groan drawn forth with flicking wrist, to speak of worshipping your hips, in low, discordant hymns.
For all my fear of spiders I would snare you like the firefly and wrap my bloated body in your labrynthine insides.
Insidious as thought may be, it pales to meet reality, for if you are to feed on me, the consequence is dire. For soon the heart that ceased to beat will drum itself, though rhymically, it pounds an army's marching feet, all but slavering desire. Then woe to find this heart of mine is snared itself by some new twine that holds it tight and seeks to bind that which has yet to survive.
You'll find me writing poetry, less of need and more of beauty, and all your kisses running through me. Love, it seems, the light suffusing.
There I'll stand before you, naked. Cowled in rain and cloaked in hatred, staring daggers at the sky, until you beckon me inside.
Quick wit will slow and charm will fade, and lust, though hot, will cool. Then all that's left is me in love with you. The armor I have worn is bent, battered, broken, shattered, rent, and finally just cast aside, for all the good it's done. I will rage and fight and spurn the night, but in the end the battle's won, not by show of strength but by the sight of you bathed in starlight.
Take this huddled, broken man. He's all that's left of me. Where I would yearn to rule the world, he wants to sail the sea. He wants to watch the sun descend, to claim himself a plot of land, and build his life with his own hands where I would turn and flee. Perhaps he's stronger, come to think, than lechery and smoke and drink, the things I cherish now are things, what he will seek or his life brings, I can hardly see.
When you reach the clearing at the end of the path, I hope you'll both sing of me.
Yours,
-S.R.
I will feed off you, the way you mold words around your tongue and form them with your lips. I will feed on it as if I am digesting those creations of my own volition, and lust for it as if those words were the iron length that twitches between my thighs at each slurred, sultry syllable. I will eat your words and wish you'd eat me.
Perhaps, then, this is symbiotic. This exotic, no, erotic, no, neurotic display. Is it platonic or a tonic for the chronically chained. I'm all prolific, narcissistic, full of septic disdain, but it's endemic. I can't end it.
You call flaws what I call flawless.
I will sing you songs of sailormen lost, of storms that whip and winter frost, of whirlwind passion, raging hot, siroccos, pain so cruelly wrought, and love so deep that time forgot. I'll sing a web until you're caught. I've hungered now for stranger times to seek my throne between your thighs and plant my grin in bourbon eyes. To supple breast with wicked lips, a groan drawn forth with flicking wrist, to speak of worshipping your hips, in low, discordant hymns.
For all my fear of spiders I would snare you like the firefly and wrap my bloated body in your labrynthine insides.
Insidious as thought may be, it pales to meet reality, for if you are to feed on me, the consequence is dire. For soon the heart that ceased to beat will drum itself, though rhymically, it pounds an army's marching feet, all but slavering desire. Then woe to find this heart of mine is snared itself by some new twine that holds it tight and seeks to bind that which has yet to survive.
You'll find me writing poetry, less of need and more of beauty, and all your kisses running through me. Love, it seems, the light suffusing.
There I'll stand before you, naked. Cowled in rain and cloaked in hatred, staring daggers at the sky, until you beckon me inside.
Quick wit will slow and charm will fade, and lust, though hot, will cool. Then all that's left is me in love with you. The armor I have worn is bent, battered, broken, shattered, rent, and finally just cast aside, for all the good it's done. I will rage and fight and spurn the night, but in the end the battle's won, not by show of strength but by the sight of you bathed in starlight.
Take this huddled, broken man. He's all that's left of me. Where I would yearn to rule the world, he wants to sail the sea. He wants to watch the sun descend, to claim himself a plot of land, and build his life with his own hands where I would turn and flee. Perhaps he's stronger, come to think, than lechery and smoke and drink, the things I cherish now are things, what he will seek or his life brings, I can hardly see.
When you reach the clearing at the end of the path, I hope you'll both sing of me.
Yours,
-S.R.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
A Handful of Poetry
APOTHEOSIS
The forge suffuses me,
Imbues me with strength.
The heat radiates outward,
Drawing on the
Center,
While little cataclysms,
Chain reactions,
Are born, erupt, and are reborn.
She whispered to me,
From years and miles ago.
Graced with a magnetic presence,
That I dare not ignore for fear
Of being pulled apart.
She is power,
Raw and uncontained,
Enshrined and beautiful,
And she does not dance.
Rain beats down on her head,
Her dark locks
Cascade,
Like angry mountain streams,
Into the bosom of a valley.
She shrieks, bared chest to the wind
Challenging the storm,
And emerging the victor.
Zeus bows his head in deference.
Satisfied, she turns
And rekindles the forge.
The Forge
Her legs are
Like molten gold,
White hot, poured over marble,
Sculpted so perfectly,
It is painful to the eyes, to the touch,
Incendiary to the nerves.
Her fingers skitter up his back, sinking into the skin
As if seeking the bone buried beneath,
Like divers searching
For Atlantis.
He prowls, predatory,
Pupils dilated, mouth slightly open,
Jaw muscles poised to snap shut,
To tear away flesh or
To leave marks of his need
In the soft, white of her throat.
The first tracks through pristine snow.
They writhe and roll,
All hips and limbs,
Sweat and succor.
A chaotic mass of flesh and sinew,
Flashes of movement:
An arched back, muscle tensing along the larynx
As she cries out, arms seizing her, releasing,
Capturing.
They crash together, no rhythm,
No senses, no awareness
But for the tides that push and pull
At them, the innumerable
Pleasures,
The urgent, heedless desire.
She tenses beneath him, relaxes,
Calls him names he has
Ached to hear, screamed or whispered,
And her eyes flutter open
At the height of it all,
Drink him in, and burn him,
Everything but his need for her,
To dust.
THE DANCER
I have often dreamed of you,
Dancing on the surface
Of the water,
Like the picture of
Luna,
Garbed in white gossamer strands.
With eyes that burn
Like incandescent stars,
And alabaster skin
Bathed in moonlight.
I watched from the shore,
As you pirouetted
Atop the waves
Toes rising above the roiling
Crests, as if they rose and fell for you,
Bowing at your whim,
And I found myself lost
In the song
That spilled from the air,
The tune you hummed,
While you dipped and leaped,
So utterly adrift
In your own music,
As to never know I was there.
I return, night after night,
Sneaking away from
The world,
From these fitful worries
That plague my waking hours,
To stand and watch you,
And wonder if that kind of bliss,
Is forever beyond my reach.
I have stood in silence, and in song,
For more years than I have lived,
And kept this place secret,
Sacred,
A gift you have shared with me,
And no other.
That, alone, is worth all the worry.
PLAYING GOD
I want to create you with words,
To build you from
The meaningless symbols set to white canvas,
To mold your senses with letters
And fire your synapses with soundless writing.
I want to make you,
The way mankind was molded from clay,
Taken from the very earth on which
He dwells,
So that you might exist elsewhere,
In all the worlds of imagining,
Immortal as the written word,
As the language,
Because you are no more
Than a conjuration,
An idea placed in flesh and blood,
Not by the hands of some Allfather,
Nor the endless, catastrophic
Upheaval of biology.
I have created you,
Or an ideal you,
From the skin
And hair and bone
That walks in and out of my mind
And transposed something else,
Something wonderful to me.
In time, I'm sure,
The illusion will shatter,
These thoughts, these
Sinister fantasies,
Will erode like so many stones
In the wind,
And I will see you
For who you are,
More than words placed neatly on a page,
More than I am capable of creating.
The forge suffuses me,
Imbues me with strength.
The heat radiates outward,
Drawing on the
Center,
While little cataclysms,
Chain reactions,
Are born, erupt, and are reborn.
She whispered to me,
From years and miles ago.
Graced with a magnetic presence,
That I dare not ignore for fear
Of being pulled apart.
She is power,
Raw and uncontained,
Enshrined and beautiful,
And she does not dance.
Rain beats down on her head,
Her dark locks
Cascade,
Like angry mountain streams,
Into the bosom of a valley.
She shrieks, bared chest to the wind
Challenging the storm,
And emerging the victor.
Zeus bows his head in deference.
Satisfied, she turns
And rekindles the forge.
The Forge
Her legs are
Like molten gold,
White hot, poured over marble,
Sculpted so perfectly,
It is painful to the eyes, to the touch,
Incendiary to the nerves.
Her fingers skitter up his back, sinking into the skin
As if seeking the bone buried beneath,
Like divers searching
For Atlantis.
He prowls, predatory,
Pupils dilated, mouth slightly open,
Jaw muscles poised to snap shut,
To tear away flesh or
To leave marks of his need
In the soft, white of her throat.
The first tracks through pristine snow.
They writhe and roll,
All hips and limbs,
Sweat and succor.
A chaotic mass of flesh and sinew,
Flashes of movement:
An arched back, muscle tensing along the larynx
As she cries out, arms seizing her, releasing,
Capturing.
They crash together, no rhythm,
No senses, no awareness
But for the tides that push and pull
At them, the innumerable
Pleasures,
The urgent, heedless desire.
She tenses beneath him, relaxes,
Calls him names he has
Ached to hear, screamed or whispered,
And her eyes flutter open
At the height of it all,
Drink him in, and burn him,
Everything but his need for her,
To dust.
THE DANCER
I have often dreamed of you,
Dancing on the surface
Of the water,
Like the picture of
Luna,
Garbed in white gossamer strands.
With eyes that burn
Like incandescent stars,
And alabaster skin
Bathed in moonlight.
I watched from the shore,
As you pirouetted
Atop the waves
Toes rising above the roiling
Crests, as if they rose and fell for you,
Bowing at your whim,
And I found myself lost
In the song
That spilled from the air,
The tune you hummed,
While you dipped and leaped,
So utterly adrift
In your own music,
As to never know I was there.
I return, night after night,
Sneaking away from
The world,
From these fitful worries
That plague my waking hours,
To stand and watch you,
And wonder if that kind of bliss,
Is forever beyond my reach.
I have stood in silence, and in song,
For more years than I have lived,
And kept this place secret,
Sacred,
A gift you have shared with me,
And no other.
That, alone, is worth all the worry.
PLAYING GOD
I want to create you with words,
To build you from
The meaningless symbols set to white canvas,
To mold your senses with letters
And fire your synapses with soundless writing.
I want to make you,
The way mankind was molded from clay,
Taken from the very earth on which
He dwells,
So that you might exist elsewhere,
In all the worlds of imagining,
Immortal as the written word,
As the language,
Because you are no more
Than a conjuration,
An idea placed in flesh and blood,
Not by the hands of some Allfather,
Nor the endless, catastrophic
Upheaval of biology.
I have created you,
Or an ideal you,
From the skin
And hair and bone
That walks in and out of my mind
And transposed something else,
Something wonderful to me.
In time, I'm sure,
The illusion will shatter,
These thoughts, these
Sinister fantasies,
Will erode like so many stones
In the wind,
And I will see you
For who you are,
More than words placed neatly on a page,
More than I am capable of creating.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Redemption (A Plague on Words Part VI)
Oh, the shame that sent me off from the god that I once loved, was the same that sent me into your arms.
I was born a godless son, borne to a lawless land, and raised to raze the worlds of man and die with sword in hand. The spark grew dark and jumped the shark as I sought lust and more than fought to carry on my line or find some meaning, some Salvation. And whence I saw her, bathing there, with locks of starlight wound in hair not midnight black or flaxen fair she lay a banner made for war or conquest named like Peace. The pieces came together, I the least.
She was thigh-highs and bright eyed at the pulpit, veiled and hooded as a culprit, kneeling in orison. Her voice, sickly mellifluous, commanded me obstreperous, to conquer the horizon. I was all ebullience, she bound my wrists in dominance while I gasped silent consonants and begged her recompense. She was virulent, neurtoci and erotic, swearng covenant to malevolence. For few aroused me, so profoundly and I, astounded, came unfounded and found my flights of fancy grounded.
When I fell for her tricks this evisceratrix fed me to the host of newly-Christianed darchangels. Converts all in concert sought to praise her fable. Then, shattered by the battering of lust unleashed, I scattered them to spatter on the cracked earth at her feet.
She found my bared arms captivating and slinked in close, breath palpitating, and festooned me without debating, a fragrant glimpse of all eclpised. She flaunted me in haunted dreams that, daunted, seemed frayed at the seams, and flitted off until she seemed the presence of Deception.
Deliver unto me thy sacred seed and sow my guts rebellious.
I crept, adept, into the parts of me where the waning Light wept. She followed, stealthly deft to the weakness and swept me in her debt. I left, bereft of this titanic wreck and retched.
She emerged from the bilious insides querulous, stalking deleterious, appetite licentious. Perilous, I knew, to crave so lecherous, so dexterous a lover bound to strike until I fold. I sold my soul for the sole right to her holes and holed up deep where she could hold me whole and hope arose and rolled until she curled her toes and blossomed like a carnal rose, she gripped me in the throes and froze and ceased to seize and spasm in the breath before she blows.
She came imperiously, they came deleriously, all flocking to the banner of her myriad needs. She lined them up for battle, led them dying by threes, she was Venus on a power trip, a penis-flytrap.
Then a thunderhead broke, as if intervention, to loosen muscles bound in primal tension, incited and excited by her anal pretension, and never mention my malefic intention to see that she felt without exception the wracking of my body with pain retention, to spill her blood in pleasure sans all exemption.
I spoke the secret names of gods, and fouled the furthest northern frosts, no refuge from the holocaust that swept across the waste of what was once a feted world, now fetid, burned and blackened churls were all that lived with standards furled and forked tongues curled in anticipation.
No Temptation or Salvation, she was all Redemption.
Her eyes alight like pagan rites and Light defies my woeful crimes, I wiped away time passed like brine clung to a sinking ship, and drew back on the black tide flowing forth, from twixt my lips. I pressed my thumbs into her hips, a gentle thrust toward one last kiss and when she breathed me in I knew the sky would blue again, then would I die but by my right, the last shreds of my soul would fly to hallowed halls of Valhalla to fight and dine until the end.
Ethereally Yours,
-S.R.
I was born a godless son, borne to a lawless land, and raised to raze the worlds of man and die with sword in hand. The spark grew dark and jumped the shark as I sought lust and more than fought to carry on my line or find some meaning, some Salvation. And whence I saw her, bathing there, with locks of starlight wound in hair not midnight black or flaxen fair she lay a banner made for war or conquest named like Peace. The pieces came together, I the least.
She was thigh-highs and bright eyed at the pulpit, veiled and hooded as a culprit, kneeling in orison. Her voice, sickly mellifluous, commanded me obstreperous, to conquer the horizon. I was all ebullience, she bound my wrists in dominance while I gasped silent consonants and begged her recompense. She was virulent, neurtoci and erotic, swearng covenant to malevolence. For few aroused me, so profoundly and I, astounded, came unfounded and found my flights of fancy grounded.
When I fell for her tricks this evisceratrix fed me to the host of newly-Christianed darchangels. Converts all in concert sought to praise her fable. Then, shattered by the battering of lust unleashed, I scattered them to spatter on the cracked earth at her feet.
She found my bared arms captivating and slinked in close, breath palpitating, and festooned me without debating, a fragrant glimpse of all eclpised. She flaunted me in haunted dreams that, daunted, seemed frayed at the seams, and flitted off until she seemed the presence of Deception.
Deliver unto me thy sacred seed and sow my guts rebellious.
I crept, adept, into the parts of me where the waning Light wept. She followed, stealthly deft to the weakness and swept me in her debt. I left, bereft of this titanic wreck and retched.
She emerged from the bilious insides querulous, stalking deleterious, appetite licentious. Perilous, I knew, to crave so lecherous, so dexterous a lover bound to strike until I fold. I sold my soul for the sole right to her holes and holed up deep where she could hold me whole and hope arose and rolled until she curled her toes and blossomed like a carnal rose, she gripped me in the throes and froze and ceased to seize and spasm in the breath before she blows.
She came imperiously, they came deleriously, all flocking to the banner of her myriad needs. She lined them up for battle, led them dying by threes, she was Venus on a power trip, a penis-flytrap.
Then a thunderhead broke, as if intervention, to loosen muscles bound in primal tension, incited and excited by her anal pretension, and never mention my malefic intention to see that she felt without exception the wracking of my body with pain retention, to spill her blood in pleasure sans all exemption.
I spoke the secret names of gods, and fouled the furthest northern frosts, no refuge from the holocaust that swept across the waste of what was once a feted world, now fetid, burned and blackened churls were all that lived with standards furled and forked tongues curled in anticipation.
No Temptation or Salvation, she was all Redemption.
Her eyes alight like pagan rites and Light defies my woeful crimes, I wiped away time passed like brine clung to a sinking ship, and drew back on the black tide flowing forth, from twixt my lips. I pressed my thumbs into her hips, a gentle thrust toward one last kiss and when she breathed me in I knew the sky would blue again, then would I die but by my right, the last shreds of my soul would fly to hallowed halls of Valhalla to fight and dine until the end.
Ethereally Yours,
-S.R.
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