He didn’t know … she had a razor blade in her pussy.
It is not subliminal.
It is not drastic.
It is erotic, for the neutral eye.
A black veil all over her corpse.
A black, transparent, veil; covering the sins she had indulged in.
Covering the marks on her body – the scars of the path she took to stray.
Covering her moans and her squeals.
How far had she gone?
Playing with death, all along. She didn’t know it would be that grave.
She had died a million times, before her death.
She had suffered sweet pain. She fought restlessness. She stroke the eye of the maker, right in its heart.
She gave him as he pleased. With a little pain all along.
She suffered the consequences, of an act too much analyzed. Of a thought shaded with tranquility … too much tranquility, the kind that makes the ears scream.
He died on her shoulder that night.
She felt his body trembling, in the last seconds of his present life.
She waited for the transition. She waited for the glimpse of white. For a feather lighted pain. For a dim noise.
But it never came.
She could not live with the guilt – of letting him go, without nature performing her last dance. Before the radiance of the moon and the reverberation of the wind cross his mind and leave him dazzled with death.
Silently, she moved to the other side of reality, watched herself sleeping under a corpse.
The view was unbearable. The pain was excruciating.
She seized to exist.
It was not subliminal.
It was not drastic.
It was erotic, for the neutral eye.
Discounts - Having restored the seven books of poetry with which I am at least partly content, I discounted the fuckers by 20% for an undisclosed length of time too. ...
2 days ago