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Burning bones.

July 16, 2010

Exhaustion burns in my bones, like cigarettes against skin, like candle wax. Snit, Snat, Snut. Slut. That’s what they call you, they call me, every little bitch that deigns to show leg. Punish me; fuck me, string me up and cut me. Bite me, kiss me, taste me.  You know I want it, you know you want it, you know you want me to want it. To want you in every burning pore.

Exhaustion burns in my bones because you hang me, wrist to leather, wrist to steel, rope around neck and lashed…from cunt, breasts and heel.

The best feeling is the slow tingle as the flesh shivers from the curl of the whip and the smack of the paddle. That moment of hesitation as your muscles tense sniffing for momentum…sniffing for the hint of pain to resume. The best feeling is knowing as each strike lands, that you mean it.

In every burning muscle and in every single blow of pain and pleasure mingling across my arching back and my curling toes and my fist clenching full body moans. You mean it.

You touch me and I cry.  The feeling of skin against me electrifies, pacifies. I stop shaking, I stop wriggling. I love every moment, every second, millisecond, nanosecond. You can count the frames as I concentrate. I can sense each little pit, every raised segment of your fingers. You could take a fingerprint with my arousal, pulsing, burning and yet you touch me and I cry. God. Please. Fuck me.

You don’t.

You tease and taunt. You scrape my back with your nails, you bite and lash at me. You tease and fucking taunt and oh god I just want to feel your skin against me because every time you touch me, every time you come close and splash my neck with your hot breath, your laboured desire, I want to cum and shudder and i want to do it all in your arms. You tease and taunt and I cry out as another wave of pleasure and pain mingle in my spine meeting your harsh delicate design. Exhaustion still burns in my bones.

And then you let me go, the marks on my wrists flash red, red for desire I like to think. I fall. Moments pass but I know the routine. I gather myself, cunt aching for what’s next. I stand by you. Arms stretched as they are up to the ceiling. You grab the shackles. Yes yes, I think to myself as I take the whip, your turn, I know.

Exhaustion burns in my bones and soon it will burn in yours.

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Inhale/exhale

June 17, 2010

“Good fucking dickbagging cuntnuggetting holy shit of asstards, what the motherfucking dicklicking crotchrubbing pissdrinking weaselgit thing to do. Fucking hell man, Fuckmcfucking hell”.

“Fuck mcfucking hell”, Jason repeated. Rob exhaled.

Jason inhaled. “Jeez that’s a lot of swearwords Rob. Care to elaborate?”

Rob did not inhale. “No i fucking do not care to fucking elaborate you dickweed my friend is fucking dying and you’re starting a god damn argument over bullshit nothingness that’s not even fucking related to anyfucking thing useful…and”…and this is where Rob ran out of breath and mostly responded with spittle.

Rob did not inhale, and after a while his face started turning blue so his rage took a temporary timeout and in those few seconds of shallow gasps and potent glares Jason tested the waters.

“Look man, I’m sorry” he began, pausing, waiting for the oh so familiar ‘fucking’ interruption, but it didn’t come, he looked to Rob, eyes downcast, far away. “I wasn’t trying to start anything, really…it doesn’t matter.” His platitudes rolled off as sweetly as they usually did, and they were normally enough to pacify anyone’s anger and frustration. Rob just inhaled.

A great sigh, a huge sigh. Lungs lifting and collapsing like an explosion shattering the foundations of the soul. “I know…I know. It’s, it’s ok” he replied, eyes still absent. “It’s not you, I’m not even angry.”

“Not angry? then…?” The question left unuttered, but understood, “No Jase, not angry….sad, you know? Sad…and upset. You know how when you stub your toe on the door and it’s like the whole fucking worlds on fire and you just want to stab something and swear?”

Jase thought no but said yes, he understood the point at least.

“It’s like that, when you’re hurting, you get angry. Natural, human, evolutionary, biological, psychological,and fucking fuck Nietzsche and his ubermensh bullshit, fuck him and all the whole asstarded world with this ridiculous concept that boys don’t as my Robert fucking smith stated cry. Fuck that. Fuck it hard. I have fucking feelings, right? Right. Yeah. Right.”

Jase wondered, briefly, if he was merely a narrative construct to further the discussion of feelings and transferring of intent vis a vis Waiting for Godot. In some kind of potent metaphoric sense their relationship was being used to explore the differences between the rational logical self who denies emotions and the emotional destructive self that struggles with cultural expectations of stoicism and all that stiff upper lip nonsense but figured that would be entirely too self referential and meta, so simply responded, “so why don’t you just express the feelings you feel, Rob?”

Rob inhaled, quite aware of his allegorical nature, quite aware that the society in which he lives warps his thought patterns, pushing him to express pain as violence, responded rather more succinctly, “Because when I do, people like you express an inability to understand”

Jase simply spluttered, “what do you mean by that”

Rob exhaled, “Exactly.”

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Details

May 25, 2010

The devil’s in the details, they say. All those little nuances, those nooks and crannies of circumstance and causation.  This is doubly important in the study of demonology.

She crosses  the hall like lightning on speed, cracking the air in a rolling roar of sex and lust and phwoar. Why cult priestesses insist of wearing corsets, I do not know. It definitely seems to drive their little minions mad with desire. It’s probably a staff motivation thing.

I’m what you’d call…a contractor. I’m brought in when the high ups are concerned about quality control. Product assurance is important when you ship demons wholesale and I provide the guarantee. So as she sidles up to me, with those hips swaying, with those lips sighing and those eyes begging me to touch her; kiss her, love her,take her, (and let’s just say it wasn’t the first time), I sighed. These women seduce and sell themselves for power and lust and please I can hear the judgments a mile off you hypocritical bastards. Men do it too, they’re just not as good at it.

So she sidled, and batted those eyelashes as if to say, hello fuck me now and lets forget about work. They do this when their nervous. Of course she’d left off half a ritual sacrifice, skimped on proper tallow and clearly had no sense of appropriate demonic theatrics.

She had to go, she was a liability. So then I sidled too, that’s what I do. I tell the bosses who’s doing well and who’s fucking up the apocalypse one typo at a time and I get a great big pay check. It generally works out well in the end. The fat cats get paid, and you always have a supply of new sacrifices as you weed out people who just don’t have pride in their work.

Of course, there was a time when those women managed to distract me. heaving bosoms and leather, who wouldn’t be? Right? But no more, no sir. Oh I still fuck them. Don’t get me wrong. I just remember to fire them afterwards.

The devils in the details, it’s why I get hired so much.

Yours eternally.

Satan.

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Rage and skin

May 12, 2010

Rage and skin tingles at a million degrees. each pore breathing out a volcanic lust stench of desire, a dust cloud of screaming sex… Like the ground beneath a thunderstorm wiped before furious rain and bolts of pure unadulterated power the skin tingles, hairs tingle, the skin contracts, the entire body tingles in a thousand flashpoint lightning strikes of arousal. As skin against skin touches in a hesitant graze tectonic plates could shift and be ignored as eyes lock and passion flows. Like the volcano, like the earthquake, like all great cataclysms that shake the sky and shudder the earth. The air tingles and cities rise and cities fall in the moments that change the world. In the moments that sweep us along and let us lose time, let it stand still as if time was only relative. The air tingles and as skin touches skin in the passionate fray cities rise and cities fall, after all in the end everyone’s just a little death away from cataclysm.

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What is love?

April 12, 2010

What is love? An infatuation? A chemical fixation brainwashing your reason centres, coursing through your blood in hormone units, legions of little traitors infecting every cell and pore till you sweat desire, sweat passion and furious demand, need for another? Perhaps.

What is love? A wondrous thing perhaps? Transcendent like one of Plato’s forms, perfect and complete, even pure, perhaps. They’d have you believe, lovers that is, those that love…that love is beautiful. Soul-saving, sanctifying and salacious in its wonder. In it’s wonderousness.

What is love? Cold snow, crisp beneath feet and a sunrise drifting through trees, sky-rise hues of pink and red shattered against a pastel white cloud. A feeling of contentment, harmony, the knowledge of skin and flesh and soul joined in your arms, fingers lacing and pulse tingling in rhythm together perhaps? Standing beside a dear friend, lover or a father, a mother maybe….sister daughter son, dearest ones. What is love but shared moments perhaps? Memories of harmony.

What is love? What is it, can it be defined? The feelings one has for a friend, our staunchest defender and ally through years of turbulence and joy remains the person we met and have come to know, do they not differ for the most intimate relationship of a lover? Flesh against flesh in a melding of skin and soul. These are both love…no? So different, so powerful yet. You’d die for them. You’d suffer for them. You’d burn in a thousand hells for a thousand years amidst a thousand tortures for them and at the end sacrifice a final pleasure, a final reprieve…all for them. So different these feelings, so separate…so similarly strong, both love…different loves and If these things are love and yet so different can one truly define love? Can one say categorically this IS love and deny the rest? Perhaps.

What is love but the most undefinable feeling of kinship, whatever that may be?

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Implosion

March 20, 2010

Desperate for attention he implodes on the corner of broadway and park. Locational metaphors for drama and nature, he assumes will poignantly extend to the concept of the theatre of life to give his death meaning.  He assumes wrong.  Remains take a while to ID, nothing to scan, nothing to identify.

Fourth case this week.

If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes I’d roll to disbelieve. The chief stole my D10’s. Not appropriate for police work. Bullshit. He just wants them for himself. Typical PC, I suppose I should be thankful he just took my stuff and left the other half of the cliché off.

Another imploder, I always get the messy ones. Brainwave. News bulletin explaining a safe clean method for implosion, preferably in some kind of easily disposable plastic bag. Nah…the chief would never go for that. No way, bad publicity.

Plastic isn’t biodegradable.

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And Idle thumbs

March 17, 2010

Soft trees, soft like love. Beautiful and born to die. Leaves cascading in simple palette hues. Browns and yellows, like a bruise.  Blood pumps, heart races. The thumping concussion of anxiety and fear ripples through memory engrams, ripples through consciousness, each leaf an earthquake. The pain of a bruise reminds us of the past, of injury and in that introspection we learn.

We say to ourselves and to others, “here is what I did wrong and this, yes this is how I can avoid it in future”. Leaves cascade and I remember love, deep rooted love, it grows from a tiny seed, an acorn of “like”. It grows.

And idle thumbs? They draw, they paint, they write. They do whatever they can to hide the death they feel. The bruise grows.

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