I don’t want to do anything. I don’t want to sleep. I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to breathe. I don’t want to leave. So, I’ll leave. No. It’s too cold. So, I’ll listen in this darkness. I’ll wait.
Breathed in smoke that from which when exhaled amorphous shapes grew. Shapes whose outlines distorted. Shapes whose translucency made brightness; contrast came. White screens and scattering. Taste of dry bitterness coalesced in cavities; those used for consumption and communication.
I want darkness to cradle my eyes. I want tears to alight through that darkness. Like the glowing smoke, create contrast; constructed from emptiness and haplessness. I am floating; heavy in nothingness, amidst figures from a mind distilled in darkness; deranged, neurotic, infested with madness. I listen to sounds of crawling skin in coldness. I can fathom no -thoughts. Yet, I remain attempting to sustain persistence in hope to regain perseverance of retaining -thoughts. For, I know that bereft of neural stimulation or sensory activations, -thought-less, time hastens senescence while bearing no benefit. In any bit. So sit. Lie. I am by my gravity -bound.
Grounds that held lying bodies trembled for moments. Fear infiltrated despondency and rendered dreamlessness insipid. What had unsolicitedly conquered swiftly dispersed. Vestiges of macabre fused in permanence, intertwined with prior essence, became no more what once was abscence. Caged negligence clawing at sieges wrought of confinement shrouded by diffidence. Coincident with indulgence, meaningless distance defining separation as resistance. Coherent within dense concentrations, offense and disparate presence, sinking, seeping, and bleeding into some abyss, abstract in vagueness; devoid of remembrance. Lifelessness overturned that which is: lively livid or vividly alive. Went away deprived of existence, less balance swayed at riddance.
I imagine writhing bodies. Curves twisting leading to breasts. Resting hair sprawled limbs, or tied up; forceful discomfort, bestowed pain. I see them. Some squirm. Others dying. Decadent vessels. Still lovely and tender. I feel them. Skin drenched, souls have wept and bled. I shed none but processed cotton, sown up my legs; pull them down. I tear what covers my thorax, from throat, out to chest, and rip around to back. Without shame I am now amongst my women, treading above their luscious bodies. I place each careless step, graceful, on faces, breasts, necks, thighs, cunts, abdomin-al surfaces, rib cages, spines, -fragile shoulders, and heads. I hear cracking amongst the screaming. I feel crackling from beneath all the walking. I want you to beg.
Ask me for mercy. My rotting slaves, love me. Crawl to me, with trails of visceral fluids pouring. Climb up my legs as they are walking. Fight for my manhood as it sways limp, flapping when colliding. Cry for my love. My beautiful shells, plead for violation. Consent to my violence. Denounce sacrilege absolutely. Need me to defile your sanctity. Wish to become chained to me, for eternity, so that I could burn you. So that we could burn with me, for as long as we reside in this reality. Confide silence with victims of instincts refined over eons in which presided -conditioning. Flames grow in wavering turbulence; rapid and demanding.
Goddess of the underworld strides onward emerging, from shadows within scorching fires. Mire skeleton arms outreaching her majestic gait. Straight through skulls our localizations lock. Rocks of bones mark the sea on which we float. Noticing each other’s souls through eyes bound. Frown dismissive of both’s one desire; one must submit so that the other can dominate. Emanate no weakness with her gaze searching through you, in every place inside you, wherever you can hide you. Truths merit not nor matter lest she tempts coercion to sweat out of your skin’s pores. Or so do her bidding, without submitting. Permitting deceit in war; a form of art. Start by agreeing and then break her heart, pull it out and feed it back to her crying face, then rape her cunt until she becomes a goddess enslaved. Crave this dreadful misery, that of fallen divinity. Sin in it easily. Evil heathen stricken verily, beaten under humility, risen demonic, monstrous, and morbid without integrity, identity. I then sit here -leash in hand and you next to me.
I don’t want a tale of power. I don’t want to fuck. I don’t want to enslave gods. It is not what we want, alas. As it so turns out, the gods are in need of me. Serve the abstract entities that guide humanity, by owning them indefinitely? Or, serve the tangible self that guides you, by indulgence without abstinence, purposelessly … terminally?