A sudden pallor spread over the lines happiness had etched into her face.
A moment occurred, engulfed her, and washed by.
She still stood there like someone had frozen her time; the one’s alongside seemed to move on.
She asked, “Why?”
Watching them drop into a nullifying void, she stood there, a trench around her, and all those who advanced, were victims, to the amplitudes of black rays that took the form of darkness, they fell, a mighty fall. She ran around the moat, the one that appeared inexplicably.
It was difficult not falling and continually running in circles around the moat was not the most convenient.
The red sand had seemed to tan her brown skin.
She had to wash the stains.
Her gait matched that of a duck waddling into the pond.
Only she didn’t know how to swim.
She walked around trying to find an answer.
Stumbled, across the headstone of life’s most sure gift. Death.
Delayed the journey to its destination.
She saw her.
Cruising like an unwanted wet cloud on the horizon, covering the highlight of a pure morning.
She ran into the graveyard, the nearest escape route.
Laid herself in a coffin, the smell of freshly shoveled mud filled her insides.
Before the varnish on the inside of the coffin spread and took over her senses.
It was dark, in the distance she could hear chants, and she remembered the smell of sandal scented rosary.
She had to get up, and leave, the coffin didn’t need her, not now.
More mud stains.
She walked along.
Into the sunrise.
Mornings, just after night.
Before the sun erased the melancholy of the perturbed sky, there was an aroma, like the one that was, that made her happy, like the scents of pure love, she recollected an image, the one that was framed like a moment, captured, of the still, once occupied bed, of sheets that weren’t made, of the pillow that lay in the center to uplift her hips, stained with wine, that he let flow as he devoured her. The sun was yet to rise.
She walked beneath the elm trees, stepping on acorns that crunched under her foot.
They sounded really different from stepping on dry leaves.
But both of them were being stepped on.
Her legs ached, but she had to run, from her.
Her shoulders pined, to be able to slouch into warmth, she knew so well.
She shuffled, and noticed a flicker of light, it was unusual, the foliage wasn’t merciful to the trespassing light rays, but this one had made it to her eye.
She followed it, not knowing where it would take her, till she saw the brook, the one that foamed at the edges, it was the end of a waterfall, or you could say it was where all ends met.
Do ends meet?
Parallel lines never do?
She stood there, transfixed, till she sensed her toe twitch in delight, the water had found its way.
Where was hers?
She walked into the water, anyway.
At least she could hide here, without having to leave.
So she did.
And as she stood in the pool that covered all beneath her torso, she waited for it to rise above her and wash her away.
She kept waiting.
She plucked a few big leaves, she’d always known they’d come handy to wipe off grime.
Walking out of the water, and back on solid ground, she obviously didn’t think that the swirling dust would entrench her wet lower body.
Oh well, the pond had taken her, alright, but it wasn’t home.
She had his home, theirs; she had to hide from her.
She walked along, the afternoon and its grace had been denied to her.
The pine and oak trees were mighty, yes.
She missed basking in the warmth of the morning sun, the one that woke him up so instantly, making him sit back and rub his big eyes, and smack his lips, before he went to adjust the drapes again, and she never let him sleep, not after he’d woken up, he couldn’t not until he’d warmed his legs that had touched the cold floor in haste.
So he’d put up a mock protest and entwine his legs, under the sheets, slytoy.
The water had felt like that, the sand that swept beneath her feet, through her toes, when the water pulled back, felt like his toes and hers. She needed to be back home to cook them a warm meal.
Before that she had to find the perfect hiding spot, she would today.
A sudden lightning crackled.
Like a whip, made of the best.
It reminded her of her, the one she was running from, hiding.
She had indeed protected her during her worst.
Lifted her up and put her back on heels.
Dragged her out of the shower, where hours were spent under the running tap, in deliriums that only an addict comprehended to.
Pulled her back as she pressed her face against the cold of glass on a random morning, too early to be awake, as she drooled her fears out, over the window pane.
Choked her self pitying tears and slapped her out of it.
She made her fight, back.
But why avoid her, now?
It was necessary.
She walked quickly, in short, brisk steps.
The clouds threatened.
Hastening, she dropped his ring, bent, picked, and walked on.
She’d pluck tomatoes on the way.
As she quickly shuffled through the road, she stopped, she stood, and looked up, she couldn’t stop staring.
The magnificent tree, spread across, around, its stump, filtered the rain drops as they pattered around her.
Each drop hit a branch, maybe a leaf, slid along it, the ones that fell straight through the foliage, broke into two and dropped down as gracefully onto the floor as the ones that effortlessly slid.
More drops, as she observed blatantly, fell on her face, she loved the way it felt.
You could tell, as the drop slid down the curve of her cheek bone, that had now, uplifted nonchalantly and without her own notice, as her lips grew into a smile.
She did a quick swirl and then a slower one, feeling the rain singe her stains, corrode them away, each time, washing away her bitterness, her past.
Strength had indeed, saved her, not her sanity.
That is why she had to hide, cause she didn’t need bitterness.
She walked through the rain and the wind whistled through her curls.
A soft hum in her ears.
There she saw her, standing at the end of the road, she didn’t turn back this time, and she walked towards her.
Into her.
And then she broke into a run, her surroundings blurred, her focus was what lay ahead
What lay ahead?
And she was almost there, it was then that she saw him, secretly talking to her plant, the one at the doorstep, she did that, he always made fun of her.
She stopped, her feet fixed, growing weaker by the minute, her body slightly arching toward the front, toward him.
He cruised over and fit effortlessly into her open arms and held her before she’d fall off because of duck knees.
She had forgotten to notice that it wasn’t raining anymore.
As she brushed her lips against his, he lifted her up and she squealed like a pleased cat, and tossed her curls, they were wet.
And as he carried her in and put her on the bed, she wrestled her way onto the top of him, and he said to her, then, that her dripping hair felt like the rain.
She playfully nodded them onto his face and he enjoyed his rain.
Theirs.
26.1.09
18.1.09
Call me Kittazoid
Walk around in fast circles.
A dizzy need to stop, but the force around you requires you to slow down before, you decide to stop.
Again, this can be answered by science. Root Cause. Energy.
Non Believers asking the ones who do, to believe. That too without options.
Oh, I am a critic. And I can be so pessimistic; it could blow your mind.
But I choose not to. Cause then, it would end and begin only with me.
See, what makes you think is collateral to axioms of science, and its opposition.
It’s a debate, no one is wrong, no one right.
The one who presents his views aggressively and instills belief in its existence over the other, wins.
Off late, I.
It’s an insanely masqueraded fervor.
Ask a burning wick, the wax that melted because of heat and now falls down into space, cooled off by time, falling as a piece of ice(melted cooled off wax) flat.
Like most things do, in your head, when it looks like sagacity. But what must you ask the wick?
Ask it about change.
Molecules, dots, circles, the ones I want to draw on your back while you lie on me, covered by the red flaming sky engulfed by the rays of black.
Black, the color that absorbs all, physics.
A Spanish riff, unfinished, played again, wont match the pace of your heartbeat , the pulse of it racing, that could have been fingers running through the sharpness of strings, cutting fine lines of some of your best, engraving its existence on your finger tip.
The one that you run across places most deserved. Alternating across a stormy night with a cooler breeze whirling around your ears that are warmed by hot breaths you exhale across my neck.
Like warmth to condense fragile and still preserve its essence.
In sheets of milky silk, seams of bales of thinned and hand made wool,
Bits of cotton and feather. Bury your face in my universe, engulfing my pride of being me, you made me feel.
Moist aromas, shooting into my nostril, singing it with excitement, doused by the retina, as it waters and then in a soft moan I engulf all of you and littil bubbles foam into my head and flood my ears. A passage of spasms bind me in a fierce grip, just like you did, before letting slip, in me, all of you.
Sitting beside where you held me in your warmth, recreating smell, feel , but not presence.
You gave me, it, presence.
I try to, too.
Concentration. Involvement.
Tell me the difference. Think.
They are like those theories that talk about the same things but completely contradict each other, hence, in the process becoming only the proof of the others existence, as its own absence creates such a condition.
Anyway the point of this post being, my rebellion, to my weaknesses.
Yes, right now that’s all I feel. Weak.
But out of all of these, there is one that I succumb, to.
One that is pleasant.
You.
Its keeps me from resisting pain and coupling it in pairs and hiding it at the back of my mind so that they can fight each other and then I could, them.
Now I don’t.
And I know you know, and so I don’t feel the need to say it.
Also this post is not even remotely close to what I wanted it to be.
Though for all the people who yawned while reading this, let me tell you a joke.
If you knew me, you’d spare yourself.
I have this quality, ever since the drinking days, the drinking binges have been overcome by, age, ahem, maturity maybe :P
But the quality still stays.
I have taken it upon myself to find humor in non humorous things cause it takes effort to make something that :X
It’s a thing you commoner shall not understand.
Lame jokes are my thing.
Also yes, I have a knack for saying stoopied things at wrong times, which makes the situation worse.I am schoopid.
I have this thing which strikes me later, always, that I indentify with psycho women.
Like Mathilde, from the woman next door, or Rebecca, but Hitchcock’s distinct character traits, and Truffant’s amazing ability to portray complexity and habituation of the human mind, is something that caught my eye.
Well, yes, I would love to play them. As an actor.
To this year, when I step back onto the stage.
Where I belong most.
Cheers.
Signing Off
Kittazoidxox
A dizzy need to stop, but the force around you requires you to slow down before, you decide to stop.
Again, this can be answered by science. Root Cause. Energy.
Non Believers asking the ones who do, to believe. That too without options.
Oh, I am a critic. And I can be so pessimistic; it could blow your mind.
But I choose not to. Cause then, it would end and begin only with me.
See, what makes you think is collateral to axioms of science, and its opposition.
It’s a debate, no one is wrong, no one right.
The one who presents his views aggressively and instills belief in its existence over the other, wins.
Off late, I.
It’s an insanely masqueraded fervor.
Ask a burning wick, the wax that melted because of heat and now falls down into space, cooled off by time, falling as a piece of ice(melted cooled off wax) flat.
Like most things do, in your head, when it looks like sagacity. But what must you ask the wick?
Ask it about change.
Molecules, dots, circles, the ones I want to draw on your back while you lie on me, covered by the red flaming sky engulfed by the rays of black.
Black, the color that absorbs all, physics.
A Spanish riff, unfinished, played again, wont match the pace of your heartbeat , the pulse of it racing, that could have been fingers running through the sharpness of strings, cutting fine lines of some of your best, engraving its existence on your finger tip.
The one that you run across places most deserved. Alternating across a stormy night with a cooler breeze whirling around your ears that are warmed by hot breaths you exhale across my neck.
Like warmth to condense fragile and still preserve its essence.
In sheets of milky silk, seams of bales of thinned and hand made wool,
Bits of cotton and feather. Bury your face in my universe, engulfing my pride of being me, you made me feel.
Moist aromas, shooting into my nostril, singing it with excitement, doused by the retina, as it waters and then in a soft moan I engulf all of you and littil bubbles foam into my head and flood my ears. A passage of spasms bind me in a fierce grip, just like you did, before letting slip, in me, all of you.
Sitting beside where you held me in your warmth, recreating smell, feel , but not presence.
You gave me, it, presence.
I try to, too.
Concentration. Involvement.
Tell me the difference. Think.
They are like those theories that talk about the same things but completely contradict each other, hence, in the process becoming only the proof of the others existence, as its own absence creates such a condition.
Anyway the point of this post being, my rebellion, to my weaknesses.
Yes, right now that’s all I feel. Weak.
But out of all of these, there is one that I succumb, to.
One that is pleasant.
You.
Its keeps me from resisting pain and coupling it in pairs and hiding it at the back of my mind so that they can fight each other and then I could, them.
Now I don’t.
And I know you know, and so I don’t feel the need to say it.
Also this post is not even remotely close to what I wanted it to be.
Though for all the people who yawned while reading this, let me tell you a joke.
If you knew me, you’d spare yourself.
I have this quality, ever since the drinking days, the drinking binges have been overcome by, age, ahem, maturity maybe :P
But the quality still stays.
I have taken it upon myself to find humor in non humorous things cause it takes effort to make something that :X
It’s a thing you commoner shall not understand.
Lame jokes are my thing.
Also yes, I have a knack for saying stoopied things at wrong times, which makes the situation worse.I am schoopid.
I have this thing which strikes me later, always, that I indentify with psycho women.
Like Mathilde, from the woman next door, or Rebecca, but Hitchcock’s distinct character traits, and Truffant’s amazing ability to portray complexity and habituation of the human mind, is something that caught my eye.
Well, yes, I would love to play them. As an actor.
To this year, when I step back onto the stage.
Where I belong most.
Cheers.
Signing Off
Kittazoidxox
11.1.09
6.1.09
The blizzard circled around,the wind seemed more than playful,like a spurned lover, the snow, glistening as it was lifted off the ground by the disappointed gusts of wind as it met the rays of the playful sun that made its way through the thick foliage that almost made daylight in the forest a distant dream, the shards of alienated rays of the ball of fire, seemed to caress the ice cold pieces of crystalline snow,levitating mid-air in its diamond like form ,magnifying its sharp edges and hitting off in directions it thought it could never explore, the rays found reasons that defied motion and physicality, as if mocking the dreary scientists that spent hours and days trying to make naked nature and its miracles fit in a definition of a few words bereft of mysticism.
An empathy of sorts,like all of nature, together, echoed, their displeasure,mirrored his mind, maybe heart, that had seemed to freeze in the bitterness of arctic winter.
The pitch dark of the forest, enveloped by pure pallid snow, in its virgin appeal.
Walking through Serbian land,in footsteps forcefully dragged through the flurry on nature's disposition.
His foot sank, every time, he tried to take a step,forward,the snow engulfed his ankle, holding onto it,trying hard to make his numb toe,feel, that peeped through the torn leather of his foot.But the sanguine in his body, had a mind of its own.Just like he had drifted from his battalion, that was now a part of one's most feared question to life, its gift, after the passage of defying victory, like gravity without anything to prove its existence,buried in layers of the soil, the putrid of rotting carcasses covered by the white angel of nature,nullifying the stench of blood lost in a fierce combat against an undermined and undiscovered enemy.The Landmines planted skillfully by their adversary.Blown into tiny shards,one with the tiniest particulate embedded in the ground beneath.A gift for exhibiting their divine, unquestionable love to their motherland, as they marched without any strategy, and he pleaded them to wait and formulate, but youthful vigor and undirected hate, combineered by their fateful existence bereft of even wild berries that nature seemed to have made unavailable to them, to punish them
and teach them that if they shall be empty headed, they shall have to go empty stomach, also.
He dragged his bleeding foot, that left a trail, like a raped virgin, running away from the very place she lost her guarded possession, not because she wants to run away to a new life, but because she wants to run away from her old.
Run far away into oblivion, with a heavy head and maybe a bastard in her, she flits like a fish out of water, seized by a paranoia of an epileptic, she runs.
He was running too, only inside his head, it felt like a world in its own.
The blood drained from his limbs, his face had already merged with the flush that winter painted, all around him, but he felt not one bit, not cause he was strong, not anymore.
It was cause he decided he wanted to be weak, to succumb and choose to not feel.
Or maybe there was no option anymore.As he fought the enemy within himself, he felt a shooting pain, steering through his spine, like a serpent had encoiled around his back, he felt, his ears twitched in the delight of his skin and its thirst to feel,his bloodshot eyes, forced a tear to seep through the ends of his eyelashes and hit the dry of his skin, that seemed to withdraw to this unaccustomed wetness and suddenly, he realized that his denial to feeling, and his question about not being so, were all proved wrong.
There was too much to feel, physical pain that manifested itself in various parts of his self, like a famine hit motherland that was infertile.
His body had been plagued by locusts after bearing a weak, cheap fortune of crops, because the land could no more nourish anything, not even itself.That is how his body felt.
The plight of a distressed farmer who doesn't even have enough to feed his family,and under various debts taken on, to improve his crop.The soldier imagined those days when all of his village thought he was a derelict, because when the war didn't beckon him, he sat himself in the warmth of a foam chair, in the country library around a pile of books, that he touched, he leafed through every page, smelt its age, its ability to give, and dreamed of what could have been in it.Yes, serving his country had left him no time, for alphabets and education.Toys and the little pleasures of learning.They all laughed at his way to compensate this, to imagine and submit to the autistic demands of his existence, which flowered during his lonely days in a town of people who thought him no more than a man who lifted guns and protected his motherland, an unskilled servant who fought to fill the empty stomach of his downtrodden family of sisters and drunk husbands.
But it was all, now ,a distant dream, an illusion that made him bitter, something that he didn't need, as nature already was manifesting its bitterness into his skin, corroding through the lil layers of his manly hide.
As he took his fifth step since the beginning, he felt like a man, who wasn't so, because he couldn't give to his wife, what he bore in him, the white of his existence.He was infertile.
The soldier couldn't walk his sixth step, the serpent coiled around his spine, was tightening its grip, the doctor in the army base camp had warmed him to take care of his back, it burned and fussed, like the steam engine of a billowing train.
His nerve was the serpent.It gripped him and rubbed against his muscle, he wouldn't have known all of this, if he couldn't imagine.And the friction between these had created a raging fire, penetrating his leg, seering through every inch of skin, like the center of a bonfire, little, but the hottest, he collapsed in his path, and buried his back in the cold of layers of snow,he felt it, wet, the raging fire being quenched,the flames of pain in his back,seemed to succumb to the misty stiffness of ice.As he sank his back deeper and thrust it in frustration, into the snow,all he felt was the pain of a higher being, a pain, that didn't cause unrest, a pain that the body enjoyed, as he felt of the mighty jolts through his veins, quickly numbing like the wheels of a train applying pressure on the rail tracks and it lifting up after the passing by of the vehicle, his veins felt the quiver of existence and then numbed.
He had stopped breathing now, the air was too cold, and it felt like his nostrils were bleeding, or maybe they were seeping plasma of life, as his blood had already been drained, through his broken leg.A peaceful pallor dressed itself upon his countenance, like the grace of a bride dressed to perfection.
He had already dug his own grave by pushing into the snow.Like a fluttering bird, shot down by a man impressed at his shooting skills, he had twitched and sunk into the womb of his mother.
And the raging playful blizzard covered the remnants of his uncovered body.
Ps: I wanted to write about my backache and the frustration it is causing me,I have an exam to give and I can't sit, yes, I shall go die on my bed now, for the millionenth time.
An empathy of sorts,like all of nature, together, echoed, their displeasure,mirrored his mind, maybe heart, that had seemed to freeze in the bitterness of arctic winter.
The pitch dark of the forest, enveloped by pure pallid snow, in its virgin appeal.
Walking through Serbian land,in footsteps forcefully dragged through the flurry on nature's disposition.
His foot sank, every time, he tried to take a step,forward,the snow engulfed his ankle, holding onto it,trying hard to make his numb toe,feel, that peeped through the torn leather of his foot.But the sanguine in his body, had a mind of its own.Just like he had drifted from his battalion, that was now a part of one's most feared question to life, its gift, after the passage of defying victory, like gravity without anything to prove its existence,buried in layers of the soil, the putrid of rotting carcasses covered by the white angel of nature,nullifying the stench of blood lost in a fierce combat against an undermined and undiscovered enemy.The Landmines planted skillfully by their adversary.Blown into tiny shards,one with the tiniest particulate embedded in the ground beneath.A gift for exhibiting their divine, unquestionable love to their motherland, as they marched without any strategy, and he pleaded them to wait and formulate, but youthful vigor and undirected hate, combineered by their fateful existence bereft of even wild berries that nature seemed to have made unavailable to them, to punish them
and teach them that if they shall be empty headed, they shall have to go empty stomach, also.
He dragged his bleeding foot, that left a trail, like a raped virgin, running away from the very place she lost her guarded possession, not because she wants to run away to a new life, but because she wants to run away from her old.
Run far away into oblivion, with a heavy head and maybe a bastard in her, she flits like a fish out of water, seized by a paranoia of an epileptic, she runs.
He was running too, only inside his head, it felt like a world in its own.
The blood drained from his limbs, his face had already merged with the flush that winter painted, all around him, but he felt not one bit, not cause he was strong, not anymore.
It was cause he decided he wanted to be weak, to succumb and choose to not feel.
Or maybe there was no option anymore.As he fought the enemy within himself, he felt a shooting pain, steering through his spine, like a serpent had encoiled around his back, he felt, his ears twitched in the delight of his skin and its thirst to feel,his bloodshot eyes, forced a tear to seep through the ends of his eyelashes and hit the dry of his skin, that seemed to withdraw to this unaccustomed wetness and suddenly, he realized that his denial to feeling, and his question about not being so, were all proved wrong.
There was too much to feel, physical pain that manifested itself in various parts of his self, like a famine hit motherland that was infertile.
His body had been plagued by locusts after bearing a weak, cheap fortune of crops, because the land could no more nourish anything, not even itself.That is how his body felt.
The plight of a distressed farmer who doesn't even have enough to feed his family,and under various debts taken on, to improve his crop.The soldier imagined those days when all of his village thought he was a derelict, because when the war didn't beckon him, he sat himself in the warmth of a foam chair, in the country library around a pile of books, that he touched, he leafed through every page, smelt its age, its ability to give, and dreamed of what could have been in it.Yes, serving his country had left him no time, for alphabets and education.Toys and the little pleasures of learning.They all laughed at his way to compensate this, to imagine and submit to the autistic demands of his existence, which flowered during his lonely days in a town of people who thought him no more than a man who lifted guns and protected his motherland, an unskilled servant who fought to fill the empty stomach of his downtrodden family of sisters and drunk husbands.
But it was all, now ,a distant dream, an illusion that made him bitter, something that he didn't need, as nature already was manifesting its bitterness into his skin, corroding through the lil layers of his manly hide.
As he took his fifth step since the beginning, he felt like a man, who wasn't so, because he couldn't give to his wife, what he bore in him, the white of his existence.He was infertile.
The soldier couldn't walk his sixth step, the serpent coiled around his spine, was tightening its grip, the doctor in the army base camp had warmed him to take care of his back, it burned and fussed, like the steam engine of a billowing train.
His nerve was the serpent.It gripped him and rubbed against his muscle, he wouldn't have known all of this, if he couldn't imagine.And the friction between these had created a raging fire, penetrating his leg, seering through every inch of skin, like the center of a bonfire, little, but the hottest, he collapsed in his path, and buried his back in the cold of layers of snow,he felt it, wet, the raging fire being quenched,the flames of pain in his back,seemed to succumb to the misty stiffness of ice.As he sank his back deeper and thrust it in frustration, into the snow,all he felt was the pain of a higher being, a pain, that didn't cause unrest, a pain that the body enjoyed, as he felt of the mighty jolts through his veins, quickly numbing like the wheels of a train applying pressure on the rail tracks and it lifting up after the passing by of the vehicle, his veins felt the quiver of existence and then numbed.
He had stopped breathing now, the air was too cold, and it felt like his nostrils were bleeding, or maybe they were seeping plasma of life, as his blood had already been drained, through his broken leg.A peaceful pallor dressed itself upon his countenance, like the grace of a bride dressed to perfection.
He had already dug his own grave by pushing into the snow.Like a fluttering bird, shot down by a man impressed at his shooting skills, he had twitched and sunk into the womb of his mother.
And the raging playful blizzard covered the remnants of his uncovered body.
Ps: I wanted to write about my backache and the frustration it is causing me,I have an exam to give and I can't sit, yes, I shall go die on my bed now, for the millionenth time.
3.1.09
Brush your teeth with rum.
This is an old note I found.
Dated : 26 October
The crevices in the attic whispered through each, itself, soft rays of the blatant, passive aggressive moon light.An ice cold mist clouded the upper chambers of my nostril ,breathing was suddenly more tedious, so one gulp, one struggle epic story, of a murky quick sand pool drowning the hero, before glory crowned his soul,she took breaths through her mouth,like his brevity she swallowed in her universe,she nurtured his white soldier in her shelled egg, which collided in a thunderous applause, nature paused.
Her body felt like an amusement park.
Crawling, the thing was learning.
But the scent of damn blood, torn nerve synapses, loose flesh ends, dangling togetherness of a falling doll beckoned her into the room, pitched at the top of all other ransacked rooms.
Who will pick the morsels, lay them across her bare chest and taste sweat of fear in every bite,swallow.
Tear his limb and shove it up the bottle of ruby red liquid, a few toluene dipped kerchiefs and brain altering experiences.
Why introduce a new element in muddled up pools of confused hormones.Drain those vials and powdered paper fumes.
Make a mistake, make love to a stranger, a used god.
The abused death which took away the glory of a soldier dead, in her womb, he took birth again.
And she waited patiently in the cold underground dungeons, crawling the attics, finding her wedding ring,it was missing.
Her better half was blown into shards of dust, falling flat,moist blood on ice, inking it divine.
Coursing through crystalline pieces, a slow venom.
These alphabets. together a piece, embedded in you,infected are you?
Dated : 26 October
The crevices in the attic whispered through each, itself, soft rays of the blatant, passive aggressive moon light.An ice cold mist clouded the upper chambers of my nostril ,breathing was suddenly more tedious, so one gulp, one struggle epic story, of a murky quick sand pool drowning the hero, before glory crowned his soul,she took breaths through her mouth,like his brevity she swallowed in her universe,she nurtured his white soldier in her shelled egg, which collided in a thunderous applause, nature paused.
Her body felt like an amusement park.
Crawling, the thing was learning.
But the scent of damn blood, torn nerve synapses, loose flesh ends, dangling togetherness of a falling doll beckoned her into the room, pitched at the top of all other ransacked rooms.
Who will pick the morsels, lay them across her bare chest and taste sweat of fear in every bite,swallow.
Tear his limb and shove it up the bottle of ruby red liquid, a few toluene dipped kerchiefs and brain altering experiences.
Why introduce a new element in muddled up pools of confused hormones.Drain those vials and powdered paper fumes.
Make a mistake, make love to a stranger, a used god.
The abused death which took away the glory of a soldier dead, in her womb, he took birth again.
And she waited patiently in the cold underground dungeons, crawling the attics, finding her wedding ring,it was missing.
Her better half was blown into shards of dust, falling flat,moist blood on ice, inking it divine.
Coursing through crystalline pieces, a slow venom.
These alphabets. together a piece, embedded in you,infected are you?
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