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notmuchtoconceal · 1 year ago

Text

Two lights. One shining each upon stars.

Once at the German Pavilion, second at the Electrical Building.

Two satellites eclipsed themselves, for they had attained stable rotation.

. . .

( )

. ( .

. ) .

, O ,

o 0 o

Laika danced.

\\./

He danced, that eyes might be drawn as streamers of silk through the blank canvass of the air which he perfumed always with the spice of himself. The distillation of his bis flexing beneath the creaking leather. What faint stirrings of rivulets sprung forth from the crooks of his elbows; the canyons of his every rugged contour, flowing fluid as mudflats, petrified to dazzling crests -- radiating out in iridescent rings, twirling in ascension up the steppe of themselves.

Above him, the twin mushroom clouds of bundled grains held his hand tethered to the heartland.

Vast behind him sprawled the plains. The sweeping frieze of mountains suspended in the air. The clouds behind him petrified to stonemasonry as every wisp of riverrock sprawled forth in the tendrils of treeroots to encoil the splints of our ankles.

//.\

[The Serpent's Knot :--

In Absentia,

or The Ascension

of St. Paolo]

Laika danced.

He danced that the strings might shriek in tune with the creakings of his bones and twain. He danced that, in his own chest, the blade-edges of each rib well-sheathed in spiderwebs of string-meat might not thrum, but throb and pump :-- bursting through each leaden and coagulated limb; every trench of his arteries porous, adhesive, creaking as the spines of antique books begging to be cracked.

( )

there's honey in the

hollows

Through the pools of liquid crystal, we saw Our Lord Cpt. Drottin :-- battered in his whities, still suspended in the winter air.

Daily we pray to him, and pantomime the consumption of his flesh for our daily bread. The wine flowing as abundant richness from the soles of our feet, calloused and tawny as the blood we lap from the stump of his neck and bronze-eyes of his mutilated palms.

Our hair we perfumed with the oils we let drop and shatter, to smear alike in filth and richness through our fingers. The gloss was ours to wear -- pungent and sweet, cloaking us even as we reeked.

In masks of floral brocade, we looked to one another in half-glances through the line, beckoning these violations we too might suffer openly and gladly. That we too may be marked. Be condemned. Revealed for those bounteous things we are.

Rippling as winds across the plain, the clouds veiling those shallow ponds of depthless eyes -- his heartfelt and agonizing eyes.

We saw now drenched in tears with rivers upheaving pikes of mountainpeaks sutured shut to crystal ice :-- His milky skin so flushed, the steam rising off his face as much His tears, Our spit, Our piss pouring into his still wedged-wide pi(ee) hole from tubes he chugs down deservedly and gladly. The demolished balcony of his muscle-gut grows thicker with ridges rising into stairs the more he attempts to maintain balance, attempts to press himself up.

To pressurize himself to grow through the very seams of his bones as he chugs -- chugs, chugs, chugs -- all his brothers have to offer.

Our only worthy substitute. Our one true Lord and Savior. Only through he could our pain be allevied, for by partaking of His was Ours lessered.

and the contours of

the body

( )

Laika rose to the anatomical model.

At the center of the circle, our eyes stirred in-rotation with the ether of his guts and nerves. Splendid and translucent in pastel-metals near amber-resin through the harmony of strings which rippled in waves of liquid light. All around him whirred the bars of birdcages folding inward as the petals of perennially-blooming lotus leaves fanning always before our faces.

Around the cap of his skull, the bare sutures inviting -- by inert and sultry leadenness -- the plucks and pries of wandering fingers to vistas near-and-far, we saw now open fields where dogs would play in city lots vacant of potential by rubbish bins no child could budge. Our little brother's eyes, his designer's eyes -- balanced on these empty rooms, peering towards manor-houses in distant nations.

What mad and obsessive frivolities consumed him: to stitch and restitch, polish and re-polish, arrange and rearrange, to keep these pigs clothed in silk.

(WE CUT OUR FEED

WITH PEELS AND PEARLS)

Waves of light wisped and beaded in a veil of mesh and crystal, petrified to a splendid net which was at once hood and cage.

Caught on the trident of his crown -- slowing now -- he turned to the eyes of his admirers.

Our lil Ares in blue chalcedony, as embers streak through panes of his helmet -- past magma flows arcing down obsidian riverbeds in snowfields of quartz -- he beholds -- the ascent so close as he comes back round this time again -- his boots snaking and shrieking across the tile, legs stiff as logjams strutting ;-- ( ) a jerk from the steel cording of his kneecap to the prime cut of his thighs as he arches his back (flings himself forward and back) so the pinpoints of his bones glitter metallic in the light and all praise him with all eyes on him, for all are lost as he is found in them :-- these eyes which were legion coalescing to spores and photons to mildew back into some state where all is stony-moss with love again.

(juyha)

A sluggish golden river

Beyond the circumference of the circle of light, the statues of Diana stared without color or porthole in faces stony masks, as too the pillows of their breasts were quarry cliffs.

Dead as the moon always waning, even as she waxed, who had been the mirror by which we admired her vanity. Beautiful as she was beaten, dragging out the days as -- turn by turn -- she did not rise to flee, but rode out the pressures til we submerged ourselves in seas we could not keep down. To any with academic intent, with will to reason beyond the paltry and immediate, this could not be seen as a critique of woman, but the masturbatory drive to impotence in worshipping her visage through our drive to degrade her.

She we knew only to hold our balls in a vise as she squeezed and met us in eyes she yearned to see shut forever; she who pressed her fingers to our sockets to shlick the fat clits of our brainstems feeding on fear for it was all she knew by gentle lapping of breath and tongue in the dark. Depriving herself of the love of man by desecrating not his likeness, but the soul of him who was before her in flesh.

A sickly golden trickle

The statues of Diana, silhouetted in darkness; the pilferings of antiquities overlapping, from the days of Athens, Rome, Ephesus and Venice. These things which we treasured, for they were beyond time, anchored in an eternal present by their beauty; coveted by those who did not see what we saw, knew not the mean or the weight of their worth, but saw simply -- that others looked upon them, and desired them. Thus being desirable, they too desired them, too; they acting right, and looking always to others for what to model, how to engage, to be something other than the fleeting sliver of an unknown ;-- pushed any way you can into the faint luminance of another's eyes; that you smile and talk and have some power over another, that you may displace the lack you have over yourself on another.

A golden, sticky

They who were worms, these men who were not-so though seemed to be less -- hearing this dissertation could only lament.

They, feeling the blade-edges between the words -- the reflections of splotched and greasy node-like faces they longed to see smashed shut forever by ball and by fist -- which stung so much worse than any what or why you spoke, knew only the dread of exposure to shames they could not give voice, they pressed first the points of self-willed pressures on themselves in steel swan-glides down chests, into gashings between the weepy lids of their ribs, probing themselves in hate-fucks of their own nervous systems, mind-raping each individual nerve ending as they find always vigor and virility in their own living death, anguish flowing from the bile in their veins did cry -- asking always, asking always what's wrong with that?

(what's wrong with that?)

Not knowing the nature of their failings, nor the worth of they who held them in contempt, for they deluded first themselves then distorted all around them, to vacuum away all in tunnel-vision wishing only their derangement to be the norm. To live in hell that they may not be wounded by the light of truth. Degraded all, for they were degraded, and had not the strength to recognize their condition; unable to confront what lies had shaped them and how those lies now unshaped them into potter's clay spinning on a wheel.

trickle

Falling back on their behaviorist theories, appeals to the scientific models they used to flatter their convenience, lacking the strength to be men or women (androgyne, neuter, all or none) they now wished to abolish both rather than overflow as a font from a more perfect union within themselves. Citing the nature of social animals, praying to their own ape-like origins there was nothing above, and all which was below remained naught but mere raw thermal activity.

That this was all okay.

That their simple animal minds needn't be shamed, for all which they detested, feared and wished to take into themselves was not only alien, but inhuman -- a natural longing for the unnatural, for the state of man was bestial, and all shepherds were of space, needing to make sheep of gorillas through test-tubes of seminal exchange, thus flipping the script on themselves and resenting you, the givers of life and language for the mutilation which had been born of them -- the shrieking light of consciousness which was such a wretched burden, the only heaven on earth was a return to route animicity where to rape and kill bore no consequence, for all was nakedly rather than deceptively alive in the hierarchy of feeding.

Crying, crying, crying.

How all they wished was to eat and fuck and be told what to do, and still -- still demanding you dignify them and praise them. Sooth and condone and condescend. Not for their ability, but unwillingness to try; all ability being unlacked in the art of will.

You can hear the bones

humming

The Laikanites pierced the veil of darkness. Shaped by it, molded by its oily tendrils and brutish fingers. The light bruised and blistered though their skin remained flawless as their muscles splayed firm and heavy, diamond-cut in streaks of light where the black Orthodox robes they wore in imitation of their brother clung to every bulging contour: so tight the sheen of sweat parted red seas of darkness to bring even the outlines of their abs to our inviting eyes; fading in and out of the porous starfields which weren't there, for light itself was a trick of the void, well-concealing every inch of their skin as well as the more opacified shells of leather or latex, spun though it was, rather than flayed or tapped; their modesty beckoning only further obscenity as each, though bright-eyed and jovial in youth as their spiritual and psychological sire, let grow long the thick of their manes ;-- well-brushed, oiled and tended throughout the past four months of unimpeded growth, to tangle as ivied root systems of keratain golden bronze and bloody gold in the pale light.

Eight in number, two heads taller, their senior officer lead them -- his eyes at all times as Laika's were in the blaze of enduring effort: two firey braziers on an ice wall in the dead of night, keeping constant vigil to open the gate and bring his weary brothers home.

To look upon him -- as the men he lead could not -- milked acidity from your eyes as you knew not what poisons washed your face, nor what caustics poured onto your cheeks to let them burn. For to see him was to see so clearly every touch could smear -- even the slightest brush would stain, and what fool, what madman would dare to tarnish him who was not incorruptible, but the most for he was pure :-- begging to be cut and sold with lead and soy and assorted preserves that all may taste, yet none enjoy him as he was.

You can hear the bones

humming

In canopic jars, heads festooned with owl, raven, shark and dolphin, a piece of his liver, a piece of his pancreas, a chunk of his left testicle and right lung sat suspended in a webbing of circuit boards to engorge and thrum as miniature war drums, muffled only by fluid suspension of geyserfoam and boiling surf, so that citric through the glass bottoms like the boats of reefs, the streams of sunlamps could pass through to cast silhouettes across the floor.

And the car reverses

over

Cpt. Hlaford stood to raise into the spotlight so graciously provided him. Two horned wings crowned the scalp-wreath of laurels distending straight-out the wavy black locks he let down on this occasion. In buddings of cordyceps out the fat front lobes he allied to let dangle as leaden bollocks out the back of this skull, well-encased within a sheer pouch woven layer-by-layer of sheets of rejection-grade latex, tree rings formed overlapping into arabesques, as if bundles of branches mid-bloom an eternal spring from the titanium-gold and brass-ringed vertebrae stitched as chevron heavy-quilt audio cables, around which the fat fleshy buddings entwined and lily-padded as lichen up a trunk.

The body in the

basin

In a swashbuckler's tunic of Tyrian purple, arms and chest well-harnessed in coils of belts buckled and bundled into notch, he struck the floor with a staff nine feet tall carved and polished from an oak branch to let ripple as a gong through his bones which sung as Tibetan bowls through the pins of his joints and meshes of piano wire in cartilage inlaid with hybrid metals sculpted for resonance.

In the shallow sea plane

basin

The circle of light contracted, enveloping the inner circle of the worms, who chastised themselves under the pretense of praising Laika Who Was Lord, so that for a time now, only he was visible :-- the sole sun at the center of a galaxy of his own contraction, for beyond the narrow circumference which his eyes could parse, lay dormant all potentials which embraced him though he and they remained mutual enigmas -- and yet still he danced. Still he danced, turning now towards some seeming arbitrary and yet absolute specified place in the dark where he held his eyes and smiled with a naked display of dominion which was the pure joy of being.

And the car reverses

over

Holding contact, as hips still swaying, he took in hand his heavy leather jacket and twirled it overhead. The light bore out back so that each and every Laikanite man who walked in procession stood now in a second circle outside the inner-ring of worms, and -- the statues of Diana looming, pillars of salt between them -- dropped the incense balls they carried, sounding as the ripples of a second gong (this composed of eight smaller gongs) onto panels on the marble floor whose embers shone through bisecting triangles inlaid with Arabic type. ;-- Some heating element which, by clean convection, ignited the herb and rose high the smoke -- sweet, floral, woody, bitter -- in plumes to greet our nostrils. As Laika continued to twirl, so too did each raise their incense balls overhead to swing as maces :-- each chain whirling through the air not only singing as another string in the symphony, but opening vortexes which drew down and billowed the smoke to disperse as veils over foggy moors.

And his body rolls

over

With his free hand, he pulls away the clasps of the buttons of his shirt -- the calfskin which was the second layer of his uniform, holding him always in caress -- to expose the ribbed white cotton tank he wore beneath. Dewy with sweat and bulging with muscle, the wiry copper hairs peeking over the stitches which lined the edges, so two roses alone bloomed in the summer snowfield therein :-- the lips of prosthetics which held the blood at bay puckering through sheer cotton. Moundbuilders bustling in his abdominal wall seeming to lick themselves with tongues they never had, fat and heaving for your aching prick which rose to heaven as a multi-faced totem pole.

Crushed from the

houlder

Another mallet of Cpt. Hlaford's staff, a third gong rings out.

The circle dilates past the second ring of Laikanites to expose , at the outermost periphery of this new solar system, the Schreibermachen men who -- despite their official designation visually on-record -- we refer to simply and sometimes affectionately as the Joeys.

Stiff as garden statuary, each stands coiled with one of the Nine Temple Priestesses who -- to they who fancied themselves the Sun Kings -- were called the Sisters of Grain, though now eight were visible, each stood blindfolded by the trail of her glittering gown :-- four holding bushels of wheat, four holding scales on which were balanced the hearts of the worms -- they who turned from Laika, the King They Despised For They Could Never Be (Whose Sweetness Was Their Weakness, Whose Fetid Vacuity Was Their Cross to Unburden and Burlesque Upon the Bearskin Rug) to rim the edges of cardiac pussy lips, spitting into their own vivisection wounds -- squirting black blood coagulated as afterbirth, brown as rust in the blinding light :-- against a single ibis feather they carried to remind themselves all women were dogs, and all men bitches, and what takes flight is not weighed down by heavy bones; and the plate of scale when blooming in expanse alike with the flowers of the trees gives way to air: to he who was Lord Over All Principalities and Mocked Us, Anchored and Earthbound by the simple awareness of his being ;-- We, always so keen to displace the responsibility for how we mock ourselves, humility not being our right, for being so backwards, any step we take could only blind us further.

Without a personal metaphysics to impose on the order of the cosmos, we were lost and all speculations those learned amongst us could dredge from the abattoir floors of their beaten schoolyard consciousnesses could estimate only at things beyond any awareness ;-- and all estimations being beyond us, we took their theories as gospel and let ourselves grow fat and atrophied in the comfort by the estimations of our betters; hating them for being our betters, yet refusing to do anything in regard to bettering us.

You can hear the bones

humming

The Ninth Who Was First, a second spotlight opened for her (as expected, better late than never -- Who kept you waiting, demanding promptly.) She stared into the full-length mirror in which was a room for her, which was not behind her, but within the glass.

Far from a shallow plane, this porthole with its floral-gilt edges, inlaid with pearls overflowing from the feed-troughs, was not trash, but better saved for her. That she could take it for granted, as it collected dust in the casual sneering of some dimension slightly better -- it was enough. Simply and utterly -- more than enough. Unnecessary was it to be expanded by reduction to objective fact, for this was less wasted on her than they who would gobble them up unthinkingly to shit out with enforced contemplation the excretion simply for their buttholes needed stretch to accommodate what came ;-- why, this needed no elaboration, nor even mention, that being far less of a mystery than none. That with her, a still-nothing could endure was preferable to this mockery of childbirth which came in-out a man's anus, the backside deserving only to be smacked.

She heard these words, seeing them less as a means to convey information than as sounds which wrung as gongs within themselves, confirming a harmony she saw with her own eyes, ached for within her own cunt. Knowing quite well -- they were all for her.

All for her. Words could only confirm, never address. Words could only omit, never pin. What she knew was always already true, and men existed only to actualize her will already dormant in things.

She was the sole person for whom these words were composed -- even if the author would not admit -- for she was one and only always in mind, even if he lacked the gall to say it out loud -- that gall which was for her sincerest flattery, unspeakable though it was for her heart or her senses -- for all which was said aloud were but pieces in the puzzle she painted over, to claim any scrap fit not only in arrangment to her liking, but color over for her cool convenience.

Singing like a

puncture

To another thud of the staff, the Sisters of Grain raise what free hands they have to the clinch below the plunge of their cleavage, pulling free a golden pin which drops the veils of their robes, still gauzy and tethered to their faces as parachutes of white-gold corpseflower, icy and luminous in a winter dusk -- dancing along the floor, leaving bare breasts to stand full-figured and erect in tapered thighs, flaring ribs, the cloud topographies of cellulite; cankers wet and heady as the mute lips of wet pink eyes always staring.

Yet the Joeys -- whose eyes you saw always through -- could pick from these distended canvasses (abandoned to their silks and leisure) the raw muscularity of abdominal potential waiting to be excavated in diamond-cuts of repetition after repetition, thrust after thrust. For each was less a block of marble than a lump of clay, and from what he pared he would feed back -- fingering and pressing -- choking as he held; for what souls lay helpless and dormant in these husks could not fight, only shriek with a torment which was glee and a glee which was torment. For his eyes, their heat, the force of their muscularity bent them so far they could envision only breaking, knowing not the limits of their pliability.

Singing like a

puncture

Each Joey looking over the blind woman before him, inspected her with the calculated savagery they invited but could not delight.

Prized specimens waiting to be pampered. Waiting to be made perfect by their masters. These men who were so bright and filled with contempt, who would spurn them always with their laughter and disinterest. Giving always unsolicited advice from across the room as they looked to one another with conspiratorial smirks which made their legs clench and put their teeth on edge as they could only stare back, stare back and attempt not to drool for this was unladylike and a lady was better off a Valkyrie than a bitch in heat like these bastards always smacking each other on the asses and holding each other close to kiss and paw like honied bears. So many good men, wasted always on other good men. They as women could never be good enough. Not without surrendering things never given for reasons never specified, to those who expected but didn't much care.

Each Joey, grabbing a ball of her hair, pulled them each chin-up to face him, and brought their lips close to deny her.

The tears flowing at first slow down their faces, they felt the heat of his minty breath as each drew close to align with her.

Anchored between their widening thighs, the heft of leather bulges pressed to their aching cunts, they yanked her hair farther back, as if testing the elasticity of their necks -- simply to hear them wince, hear them whine, see which first could make his bellow out a plea, a curse, a rapturous affirmation of the bliss of this moment, caged as they were in the bars of an aviary they bent by personal magnetism.

Kill

to keep

the world

turning

On the extreme outer edge, past even the Joeys and their silent but always willing benefactors, stood eight healthy men hand-selected by yours truly, eyes-alert, engaged and gagged -- heavy rubber balls stuffed beneath strips of ox-leather clamped to jaws, pressed so deep they would swallow and choke if relenting in their vigilance -- bound to stakes astride heaps of rubbish which would ignite in plumes of black tarry smoke once dimmed by a spark, masking the sweetness of the incense, yet wholly unable to scream loud enough to drown out the notes of the song.

Kill

to keep

the world

turning

We offered them not to the Gods, who though they deserved our best, deplored human and animal sacrifice (particularly those beasts of the most sublime beauty which they revealed as their avatars on earth) for we distorted always the words which were of our own making, not to surrender ourselves to the effort of our calling, or refrain from those comforts in which we grew leprous, but give -- always with the utmost pity -- to satiate the bloodlust we could not keep down, not ever find cause to deny ourselves.

With no stars, only faults, the sky was itself the earth, and into a chasm we belched only searing miasmas. Thus, we gave only things we did not need for reasons which flattered our means. Looking always to unload something which was a burden on someone for whom we had pity. For this we were gifted the right to doubt and to whine and to curse the fonts of wisdom which nourished us. Feeling ourselves free to piss openly in the crystal springs at which we drank, so all may know the distillations of our flavor.

We -- who were above all what was most worthy of note -- lacking as we were in admiration, being good enough as it was, and entitled always to be perceived as better -- seeing the uniform standard of the cosmos in each other and our tribal envies, we extrapolated out theories of nature at which we were the center, even in our insignificance -- veering so far in the opposite direction, we arrived back and the same place and saw it suitable to rest, having made no progress at all though we exerted -- by our standards -- a fine effort, making those we professed to love complicit in our deceptions.

Kill

to keep

the world

turning

Thus even now, we profess to flatter the Gods with an open display of our innate grotesquery for which we had most contempt, simply to flatter ourselves, for still we needed flattering. Having not enough attention at home, it didn't stick :-- things which made us repulsive were repulsive, and as everyone we knew was repulsive, it was easy to forget -- the standard we set is not the standard we see, for the filth of the malaise in which we shared was a constant temptation masked as aerosol over shit which did not cleanse the poisons in the air, but deceive our senses by the addition of more.

Look at us!

Look at us in our derangement and our idiocy!

See that we are worthy of extinction.

See that we are above saving!

See how we profess that life was a mistake and end it. End it now!

Great Gods, abandon us!

We will ourselves beyond redemption!

We deny Grace, for she is a Nancy, always sneering ;--

When a beautiful thing has ugliness, it absolves itself of all beauty and increases its ugliness four-fold. Our reception is all which matters, and our limitation being parmount, our inability to see through to the paradox of fullness could never be our fault, and we being without blame, are unable to cast it. Thus, you understand now, it having been demonstrated by sheer reason (the standard given being both absolute and beyond question) that beauty is an illusion, for it is the pretense by which we break our heart.

Like Hope, it is the simple means by which we prolong our torture. For we can conceive of truth and freedom coming only in the dissolution of enduring whim, for void of substance in ourselves, we are kind only that we may be seen, give only for we may control. The beauty of others reminds us only of what we are not, and so to hate becomes the highest compliment one can give.

To spoil hatred with frivolity erodes us of all righteousness, for now there is no earnest disgust, no somber mush to choke down and spit up, disgust being but a pretense to be babied.

Maturity is therefore complicity with systems of denial masquerading as autonomy. All indignation being a means to manipulate, there is no truth to speak to power, for there is no power in a state of total control, and the lies we tell ourselves we pass off as love, not having enough consideration for others to spare them our bullshit. Thus we can only despoil, demanding they center us, for we have none and no means to see past the nothing we are inside and, by sharp insistence unrelenting as the whir of a drill -- apparently also out.

Kill

to keep

the world

turning

These strong and upright, morally fibrous and able-bodied men who loved so freely and so passionately, any who gave themselves willingly -- we offer to the lowest amongst us.

To they who could not save themselves and sneered at any attempt.

These men, who have so much to give and still so much good left to do, we give to those who lack the will to make of themselves even suicides; who every bright and living soul they see fit to ruin through odious deceptions against themselves (treachery which begins first against their own bodies and souls) being not even human beings, but things with human forms, embodied compulsion we would not deceive ourselves further by altering beyond recognition (though this artistry would have proven a point of honesty alike as heresy.)

These men, we give willingly to those who will never appreciate them. These men, we give to they who worship their own failure under the guise of Laika. They who made a deception of his cult and were thus now closest to him, praying for his ruin under the guise of patronage.

These men -- we give to the worms.

Throw his bones

over

The Sisters of Grain (those four who carried the bushels of wheat) as each Schreibermachen man pressed his stiff and throbbing prick (upright and outlined through the bulge of his calf-leather to the Avalon mists encroaching the frail cross-hatchings of their panty silk) stood each with a leg bent and raised as though a chorus girl mounting a pedestal and shook them from their plasters.

Beneath the spikes of their heels, the four worm hearts which went unweighed against the feathers of truth -- the sublime humiliation only the boldest of the boldless could bare -- milked themselves in squirts and gushes -- up and down, up and down -- the legs long shorn craned as swans, as with a kick each were sent sliding across the floor in curlicues of gore and shitwater onto the convection panels still glowing before the Laikanites on which they had earlier ignited to smoldering the incenses of their herb.

The White Cliffs

of Dover

From out trapdoors at the center podium where Laika danced, risen in three-layer cakes of a model ziggurat, the Jacekobeans emerged in portable crypts, front-facing panels insulated with a translucent latex sheet to trap their smell and preserve their freshness.

Each man stood bolt-upright and motionless in manacles of copper wire which ran around wrists, ankles, waists and chest through holes bore in the back of the box. Each caked scalp to toe in storm mud sculpted to enhance the width and swell of their muscularity.

The whites of their eyes flickering. Grunts and growls in the light.

Clay soldiers awakened and thrashed stuttering halted motion cracking the toplayers of soil to throw pressure not only against the backs of their skulls (gongs of bone muted on domes of concrete) but to each corresponding clinch point that tethered.

Still, Laika danced.

And into the sea

the sea of Rome

Four of the Schreibermachen men drew their lugers.

Eagle-eyed and scopeless, they extended itchy trigger-fingers on swings of strong arms. Squinting as they took sight, pressing pulsating hard-ons deeper into the shallow basins of the Sister's cunts, the decibels of bullet fire rang out in harmony with another bashing of the gongs. Well-enmeshed within the weave of sound, each girl's gasp mimed inaudible though her lips parted and throat quivered -- moaning still, a continuous yawning as beads of pre pearly in the whirling light glistened high-contrast in the muzzle flare -- for they'd fired two rounds with pinpoint accuracy to pierce the veils of latex and graze the wrists and ankles of the Jacekobeans, shattering the rear-bound coils of their bindings.

And the bloodstained

coast

Then another and another.

of Ostia

Another and another. Another and another.

Leon like a

lion

(This process needing be repeated, to account for one half of the Schreibermachen forces liberating the whole of the Jacekobeans.)

Sleeping in

the sunshine

Waists and chests now free, they punched forward and tore down the barriers which boxed them, cutting all the easier through the membrane with strips of jagged metal lacing their wrists.

Lion lies

down

Bursting out the boxes, the remaining four of the Schreibermachen men seized the worm hearts of their ladies' scales with verve enough to send chains flying and displace feathers in buoyant flutters landing all by providence in the bands of their blindfolds, recollecting lavender bands of green felt fedoras, upright through the wispy locks of voluminous pony manes spread as halos in the light.

Lion lies

down

Brandishing spears yanked from one half of an L-block but a league from the Laikanite convection panels, those four who were freed by the second shot leapt to swerve, impaling the meat of the rotten hearts at their tips and plunging down as an extension of that single motion -- to stamp idle moisture to the grill of the tile as they bowed to the Laikanites still immersed in their rotations.

Out of the strong

Those hearts they pressed to the heating coils now bloomed in steam and in sizzle, as the hearts earlier kicked sat already half-grilled, now needing to be flipped by the first shot of each Jackobean free, who from his L-configuration seized in place of his spear, a broadsword on whose blood gutters he spatula'd the meat, exposing to the eyes of our adoring public the crispy braised mahagony of the cardiac tissue as they too bowed to the Laikanites.

came forth

sweetness

The perfumes of the incense mingled with the savory of the grill as the steam rose to entwine with smoke pouring down as the Sisters who clutched their scales let them drop and clang in synchronization with another staff gong across the tile.

Laika dancing, Laika dancing.

Out of the

strong

Eight pyres illuminated the far corners of the room, the stench of burning garbage drew round the stream of motion and could not seep into the inner sanctum which we made by our dance -- the brine of our leather, the musk of our mighty pits, the headiness of our cocks and balls mingling with the marshy saline of the Sister's cunts standing sharp and pungent through jasmine and cedar, cypress and marjoram, salivating now with the sweetmeats braised and bronzed, tears coming to our eyes, we heard only the stunning compositions in which we were immersed, to linger sinuously in ecosystems we had made of the months we'd let ferment off the calender unto an age.

came forth

sweetness

The Statues of Diana, each a full moon in her own right, even when not posed half-away to expose the chisel of her shapely buttocks.

In the interim, each had drifted from the scattered archipelagos in their seas of darkness, pushed by invisible hands in visible currents of light to form another ring, the second which had once been of the Laikanites, who were now fourth, as the Jacekobeans had become third and the Schreibermachen men fifth, entangled with the Sisters in their proximate sixth, and another still -- beyond them the seventh of another circle of stones before the fires which were eighth, and they who were we would all draw close, emitting from the rays of Laika's heart the arc of rainbow which was monochrome as the rings of Saturn in meat and stone, microplastics and heavy metals.

Throw his bones

over

Each Jacekobean now thrust to his feet, the first-freed swap places with the second, so the seconds could flip the meat not too long ago speared as the firsts could spear the meat recently flipped to raise unto the nostrils of the Laikanites. A silent gasp unseen on severe and studious young faces each of whom was as he needed not say, a philosopher and a king, a student and a disciple always unworthy of the Gods he had made of his brothers in the flesh: the brothers whom he invited the Gods into by virtue of his loving so freely.

The White Cliffs

of Dover

The spice of the meat, the perfume of blood, rang chimes we didn't hear, our ears already bleeding -- to wake the dragons coiled within his synapses (their each and ev'ry individuated synapse, precious as a daisy-chain hand-entwined by those gentle and busy fingers, buried deep in the shallc of petrified mudflats) to the bloodlust which was that state of basic entitlement to the air they breathed.

And Murder Me

Swinging backwards, each White Knight was walking.

in Ostia

As if a game of limbo in chess, each Jacekobean ducked, twirling spears or arc'ing broadswords in evasions which seemed not only telegraphed, but close-captioned: as if the frame-by-frame were live with annotations and play-by-plays over-stuffing you between the lines were jitters of seconds, for some rotating clockwise and some counter, all were current with the minute hands rushing as minute-men, growing more frenzied second by second.

And Murder Me

Forward, back.

Seas above, seas below.

By all, they knew only darkness.

In Ostia

One by one, their incense balls swung out on chains refusing suspension by arms they built to ballast, straight as the backbones built by their own hands (nothing more above, they who could not be contained by the line) to collide with the Statues of Diana.

The sea of

Rome

A head here, a hand there -- one was taken out by the leg, another a torso to rubble, head and shoulders falling to the floor.

It happens so fast and does not stop : -- each man a landwalker of limbs, pulling back their chains to swing and shatter what remains, with the fire in their eyes hateful as the look you would give a misbehaving child, reveling the abortions you now made live, entitled to any life which still depended on you; sending up clouds of dust still trailing smoke signals turnt skywriting, signatures of names too beautiful to say aloud, they all being his ;--

And the bloodstained

coast

The Joeys mid-choreography -- with motions gracile and machine-like as arcade claws which never miss, yet still ruthlessly drain you of your quarters -- rip the buckles from their belts to send steel clanging across the floor in parallel arrangement with the silver scales (each now casting a reflection onto the other and constructing railways of light velveteen as mattress folds across the floor ;-- each holding two though there were only four) to let slip from their downy briefs fat uncut pricks full anteater-taper long as treetrunks and pink as rose-buds desperate to be kissed ;-- guiding the plump just-as-so's of their women into alignment with them, this ultimate privilege they could never appreciate, the range of their buffet burning, having not enough of a sample to appreciate its boquet.

And the car

reverses

over

The Jacekobeans, kicking once more each of the hearts -- pan-fried by the basin of the floor, glossy and bronzed to expose specks of charbroil to the dawning light -- to one another, they domed and belled coverings against platters and struck them once, twice, thrice with spoons that another gong might ring out with his ;--

Despite their muscularity, each having grown only more yoked over the course of his encasement (every iota of pressure a lead plate against the panes of his back and chest) they backflipped from the diamond-woven rugs as a place setting on which each had placed his heart, onto the initial L-configuration of his closest brother, there returning his sword or his spear to where his spear or his sword had lain, and -- resting there beside it -- took up a club which composed the shorter joint of the L, turning each to rush for the worms.

The White Cliffs

of Dover

The Sister's Heads bobbed up and down on the Joeys' cocks and each lost herself in a rhapsofy of music, cascading with crescendos of flavor which fried her brain in tune to the thrumming of the rain, inciting such friction against her brainstem, so sweetly stimulating the fear signals to ice cream floats at vintage diners left to decay in the cobwebs which composed the flytrap of inevitable endtimes always invited – coming concussive as drum beats across their front lobes, they had not time to tune out and to begin to compose for their later recitation reviews of restaurant menus or grocery lists for some meditation come amusement which was ultimately practical as a means to keep smart and pretty ... before each Joey, still seizing her fist-balled by the hair-- yanked her off and held her there: suspended on streamers of light tethering them to their pricks; to hang helpless, beckoning and ultimately worthless at his mercy.

And into the

sea

White knuckle to the club, each Jacekobean bashed the skull of a worm. First caved straight in from the top of the sutures like a roof collapsing, splattering globs of skull fragment off-white matter over the triune stage, the walls of the crypts, a splatter here and there, coming in swirls of cherry-colored flavor always frosting, hitting Laika himself -- once smiling, once licking it off with a wink as some got in his eyes -- dancing, dancing, half-blind and in total harmony.

Dancing, dancing.

the sea of

Rome

Others cleaved heads from necks by brute strength. Some severing the spinal vertebrae shattered to splinters. Fractures through the throat or the meat of the neck skewered on its own back. Beckoning a hand-picked grill of shishkebabs on icicles of marrow.

Some hang by peels of skin like an orange half-peeled. Others fall to the ground, to shake, spasm, gargle, writhe. Brain-dead on impact. Unalive but for basic respiratory functions, yet still miraculously able to suffer: able to shriek with lungs they didn't have, feeling it as the clubs came down again onto nerves already over-taxed.

You can

hear

the bones

humming

Each Joey threw his Sister to the floor, onto the puff'd and billowy cotton field of her gown which was now their bed in the winding scatterings of light which caged them in the panes of dawn ;-- Her blindfolds emerging as if a stalk and she a bulb from the petals and floats of vile blooms too thick and veiny to wilt.

Writhing there, each seized handfuls of her bedding as they felt first the weight of the shadows coming over them, each of a density heavier. First heat engulfed them in a cloud of spores weighted as blankets, leaden as a sheet of dandelion clouds, bringing with them an exhaustion in her ev'ry cell as their joys, their anticipations, their squeals of excitement arrested, as something somewhere seized their hearts -- they surrendered. To what, they could not say …

For as each Schreibermachen man came over them, they were but ragdoll bundles of nerves which could not pluck the lyres of sensations to the arcs of their bones; would not sing nor vibrate ;-- mere deadweight, though each would be ravished: each fat pink beautiful prick entering their warm and unthankful cunts.

You can

hear

the bones

humming

In the crow's nest, Cpt. Haruspex made it happen.

His eyes unwavering on his reflection, he saw them through his visor.

Though he sat in this dark room overlooking the festivities with a monolith of black bakelite suspended before his eyes as the censor bar of a pair of retrotech sunglasses only to be worn at night, on the inside :-- on the domes of his inner eyes, he saw himself in the mirror before him -- the room well-lit to accommodate him, for he was naked and splayed, though his trousers remained on as he sat alone in the dark in a state of total concentration where he gave not one passing idle thought to fondling his own fat throbbing prick through the leather to make it grow fatter, achier and twitchier as it slung plastered to his leg, where any rational man of science beholding him in this condition (not likely, for his preference for privacy, which he continually ensured by always showing off!) would think it reasonable he had grown a tentacle or was being attacked by a snake!

The microchips in his brain ran transactions through the ether, accessing emotional reserves in each Sister and Joey; the sum energetic and corporeal potential of each quantified by secretive (and yet always transparent) conversion matrices guaranteed to derive a 98.9% accuracy or higher printerless-print-out of a soluble electro-cerebrogram measured in ounces from the pattern oriented; run through algorithmic conversions from a cocktail list of androgenic and neurogenerative chemicals in the brain derived from free-floating microliters as well as potential for expression by available receptors (estimating for variances brought-about by inadequate nutrition, hydration or injury, as well as further potential for net-growth derived by predictive rapid-data processing and number crunching of measured gene-activation probability, estimated future feeding schedules, and potential hardware upgrades -- masking as an artificially-derived sentient-will via quasi-predictive randomizations of a glossary of pre-loaded phrases!)

Multiple accounts, he opened and closed.

(A summary of the above paragraph he included below!)

Converting bioavailability of all types into raw data which would then be unpacked and unloaded via the access points at which the synthetic became the organic, strings of sound high as piano wire bellowed as pipe organs blistering in their skulls, throbbing temples in their veins rising as complexes across the vaults of their ceilings. Thunderclaps rang out as the second-to-last gong over monitor lizards of rainbow stimulation markers cross-section'd on displays where pop-ups displayed and decreased total androgenic expression here, to increase it there, and kept each as uniform and predictable as a Joey could be, always so boyish and eager to please.

And into the sea

On the floor, the Bruxites rushed through blizzards of rubble falling cleanly on cedars of stone splinters, serene and heroic as field medics. Pirate-plowing forward on the hypnotic metronome of wheels coming in lapping waves across streams of tile, they held-clasped the gilt-frames of full-length mirrors which they twirled as ambulances rounding intersections, swerving in loop-dee loops ahead of the Joeys: each jumping on the ornate base of his frame (turnt slightly inward) extending his hand out and raising his hat both in balance and in-greeting as the musing of a man mounting a tram.

Each twirl'd in figure-eights so he himself was swept-in flat against the plane which rotated round and round on its hinges on the legged-columns of its wheels – turning faster and faster ;– So fast we lost sight of backs against the glass; and from each side two Bruxites jumped out – one as alike as the other and each seemingly as backwards so neither they (nor the other, nor any man watching or woman not) could tell any body from his reflection!

the sea of Rome

The Bruxites -- firm believers all that any violation of the law of conversation (sick!) of mass could be resolved by the presence of nanomachines – the portal of the mirror now unclogged of him, the caffeine molecule against your adenosine receptors -- they opined, by the inevitability of what they could only inevitably beget and represent, the Joeys to death and exhaustion.

Holding her, he thought only of how much he hated her.

Pressing her breasts. Holding her shoulders. Caressing her hair.

Had he a cleaver. Had he an ice-pick.

Had he a butterknife, he would more than smear.

He yearned to dig his nails into her soft flesh, cleaving it as gyro meat over a spitfire of two other girls. When his mouth would salivate at the thought of her, the necessity of an open flame would render her dubious taste all the less so. Like an insect protein she was and was simply bitter. The coffee old and burnt. The dead and ancient cola nuts he ground down with his molars to taste every fiber of dirt. Black African soap which scarred his skin with twigs and shrapnel of river rock as it stained the tub. There was nothing which the taste of fire and dirt could not make more sweet. Her creamy body as though mildewed from simple syrup molding from sugarcane, the carcass wet and sweet as a corn stalk waiting to be refined.

What beautiful women the Bruxites could design for him. How they pampered her and sculpted her, churing her like butter as the lies she told herself smoothed over to smother into the admiration of a nation which was the bready uncooked toast of the foundation of a people. Why was he here? Why was he doing … any of this?

Laika. Laika. Laika. Laika.

God savor the Queen. What a twerp we are unfit to love, his needing Us to love Him to love Himself. (The backdoor willingly broken into! The front left off the hinges.) A miserable fool AM I to break apart this compartment from the stones of my own being to build a stage, a tomb, a prison for this which is most Precious and Beloved of Me.

You can hear

In the crow's nest, the mirror into which Cpt. Haruspex saw into (though he stared only at the overlapping screens of his sunglasses at night) rippled as pools of boiling mercury, for from that sweetly enticing metallic water (gem-shiny as juice-boxes and yearly flu-shots in genocide season) came two long slander arms, at the ends of which were two long slender hands bedecked in rings of diverse jewels and metals (we analyzed iron, tin, copper, gold, silver and six different types of jasper) at the tips of which were ten (all ten) clawed talons sculpted in floral lattice-work of splendid metallurgy raising in golden gates and eastbound harbors from her rings, (and to even go into any detail at all about her bodice-piece would be too lengthy a diatribe better suited for a review to be published separately in a periodical of its own invention, serialized to disperse the weight!) brandishing between her thighs Your Own Personal Excalibur in a veil of black lace tightly clinging to her calves. All of this he saw. Outside his s(t)imulation. Though still he admired himself, his own naked and freshly jacked-up bod, well-fed on what he grassed ;-- for the mirror inside his game (insight he came) was but a standard (though far from boring) dumb mirror, hand-trimmed from oak, far from the polluted womb of a venomous cyborg nanny.

the bones humming

The Bruxites oriented the mirrors above the Joeys, above the heads of the Sisters, so that each could gaze upon himself, admiring his muscularity, his trim-ness, the strength and definition of his abdominal wall, tight and sculpted as he remained poised and fucked her. He could keep going. He could keep going all night. A machine indeed, he was. His brute forearms and long, powerful fingers on hands which seemed too slender to be so strong and yet undeniably as coarse and rugged as bare-paws appeared semi-obscene almost naked for they were so blonde so sparse it seemed barely there, and yet was – erupting in some angles like flares of smokeless fire from which plumed only haloes as they smiled with a childish joy of such bravado it seemed almost vulgar :-- as if the raw joys of life and self could be anything such but to those of the slave religions which worshiped Death and made refuse of their every recluse!

ABADDON APOLLO

AVE IOEV`

REX OLYMPUS

APOLLYON SHADDAI

SALVE GERMANIA

) HAIL DEUTSCHLAND (

ROTER DRACHE

WIEDERGEBOREN

) IÄ IÄ HYPERBOREA (

ANGELOS ABYSUSS

) OPEN THE GATE (

SCHLANGE UND

DER LÖWE

) EIN REICH EIN VOLK (

APPLE OF LUGH

) BE THE DAMBREAK (

Gardenia petals rained down from fistfulls of wicker baskets tied in cornflower paisley ribbons as the Bruxites sang.

The fat pink pricks of the Joeys grew so tight and swollen in the grips of the Sisters cunts, they could almost no longer hold on, any or either one of them – he already on the verge of nutting, having finally escaped … not her, not himself; the superficial image of her and herself, seeing… who? Not her, not him. Something about the total farcity of the situation and with it all the falsity of ego and of being, that despair which is… which is what? Could one find lack at the moment of total ecstasy? What was this? This something which was a nothing he fled into? Was it paradoxically its reverse, a nothing which was a something? A something which was a more than everything? too mundane … every day, so many nothings. So many beautiful nothings which composed the most splendid somethings. That he was so bored – and it was so beautiful that he could be so bored, to be so fully alive! Never boring... yet always bored. For what? For why did he will any or at all? For why did he suffer? Was it vaguely uncomfortable to fuck her cunt so hard? Who was she to enjoy it or dis-enjoy it? Who were you to believe or to disbelieve it as if you needed proof when it was clearly happening. It was happening. It was happening. It was happening and you were participating. Why did it near a point where you were always sharp, living on the edge?

They – barely able to withstand the girth inside tight, indisputably virgin cunts, hand-inspected multiple times by committee to ensure their chastity, their firmness, their elasticity – at how suddenly and to-what-degree he swelled. That the Joeys – they could actually get their pricks this fat while inside them... That was a mindfuck. Conceptually, it boggled description, and yet – who would attempt to describe it but a typist? Thankful at least – for how he slowed, for size was enough for them each to endure in isolation, and yet – collectively, the vigor they could not withstand. That, for a second, each and any could be convinced that he desired them… it was too much. They needed constant reminders … that they were only tools for his amusement. Yes. He was using them. Using them to get off.

He was getting off while using them.

That was enough.

RAMA RAMA ~

RAMA RAMA RAM

In the crow's nest, Cpt. Haruspex's reflection crawled toward him on all fours, sleek as a racecar or junglecat immaculately shorn and moisturized where she was not coiled as an Egyptian queen in metal filament or jewel'd lace ;-- the cats-eyes running up her face onto the lids of false-eyes startlingly real: the drama of her beckoning cheeks so exquisitely airbrushed, her lips so pointed and red! He paid not one single moment of attention to her, fixated on the reflection in his digital architecture (which he saw along with her, his physical eyes being hers alone) on the meaty man-bod of himself (which was real outside the game, he having been hitting the weights very hard and eating cleanly while the Laikanites grew out their beards … though inside of it (the game) he lacked clothes!) yet still she advanced. As if all the more ferocious in her desperation, or perhaps – and this would wound him if he could deduce it – all the more savage in her experimentation for she realized (a disengaged audience being a lack of one) she performed simply for herself and could therefore indulge any freakish whim she wished to entertain!!

BELOVED OF HER

THE QUEEN CRUEL (and)

CALLED COLLECTED

FAT-TITTY'D SHE-WOLF

(of) BLOODSTAINED SH(r)INES

BEDECKING BEHIVING

BEHOLDING HER (Grace)

PRINCESS DI(e)

(What a Surprise!)

SHELL OF THE WEST!

PEARL OF THE NORTH!

Eeach neither the reflection or the mirror, though from the same vantage, split into identical diverging planes – each Bruxite, singing as he bowed, knelt around each of the heads of the Sisters (the Joeys still consumed by crises in the throes of passion, these poor fools who were your bright and ever-perceptive brethren; doing their best to ignore the heated intrusions of the Bruxites and what limpness their soggy, nasally Bruxness did induce) twirl'd from each side-parting, the amber and honeycomb locks of their hair into those cinnamon-roll shapes which each Joey (their ancestral memory overriding what little common sense they had, being so uncommon) did find most made him salivate despite himself; for each could see plainly now :-- her brainy head atop a swanlike neck; each weighed down by two dumbbells which were earmuffs, but each being bready and sweet, sat begging for a fresh coat of frosting.

FUCK YOUR SISTER

With a newfound vigor, each Joey locked eyes with where hers ought be, and grabbed her by the breasts, by her throat, digging the fine broad-points of his nails into the skin of her frail shoulders as at last – he could maintain his wavering attention on her without growing soft inside her … could bare to humor the thought which was the continuous action of defiling her without hating her so much he wished to bring her to the brink of death and hold her there as the death-by-drowning he conspired to make of ev'ry swirlie ;-- each getting him and his willing victim so wet, they displaced great tidal abundance across the floors and into their boots!

RAMA RAMA ~

RAMA RAMA RAM

Before Brux, his reflection danced in a polar bear pelt.

Her choreography – spellbinding, singular, absolutely unhinged – was wasted on him, though she pleased herself with each and ev'ry novel variation of an old spin; some crusty old cliche she made wet and gushy again, even if only in her own mind; her most exquisite own mind which was hers alone to do with as she pleased, and which no man could possibly take from her, though all men wished to own it; even those who professed to be rid of it :-- each of whom would only cop to such an obvious falsity if pressured, and whose verbal testimony she regarded always as misleading, though revealing at least in how directly it mislead – for every deception harbored wishes over which she was master, making always dreams come true and seeing they were destined always to turn to nightmares!

You can hear

Into snowfields, the Laikanites had powdered the statues.

Into paste, the Jacekobeans had mashed the worms.

The bones humming

In one ring, cyclones of ash glittered clear as winter storms in the murk of misty marshes which were but of burning grain.

In another, sandstorms of pink slime encroached on the black shores.

Each Bruxite raised his palm high and slapped it flat to the man beside him – so identical, yet not his double – having at last succeeded in making the Joeys score with a girl.

Throw his bones over

The Jacekobeans, one hand on their balls, in the other ripe pomegranates palm-down and dripping, enter the sixth circle and lay beside the Joeys. Black leather uniforms polished to mirror sheens of herculean chitin by splatters of gore which give no stain, only glisten, each man pulls his hand from insid the sheath of his fly to gag a Sister with the muzzle of his palm. So tight, she can smell; so enticing, she can press out her tongue and taste.

Going limp with the smell of him, each crouches to a resting squat as he comes round the frame of the mirror; two of him where there was only Brux, and yet -- Brux is not here. Rousing her from her brother's violence gently enough to displace her head from the bedding on which she is resplendent – over panty frills, he descendinf, the alien prophet strutting – into a new pillow of his lap as each feels – coyly, pantomiming shock which hardly feels researched, the inherent drama of the reality of his touch; imagined were it not, though many times before – his hard-on stiffening to compose an arm-rest at the back of her skull. Warm, safe. The smell of a man. The heat of blood. The post-kill comedown where each is flushed by an arousal which tempers. They let their dicks squirm against the backs of her head, as if searching for an in. Through the coils of her hair, down some seam of her skull where there is a zipper they needn't make, she already being opened and spliced. There were scars on them all, secretive and sutured, and he felt long, felt slowly; taking-in every inch of her. The gentleness on his face – his sharp and rectangular face, in whose thickness they saw only cruelty – so indistinguishable from the indifference of the Joeys ;– could they see, they would conspire with themselves to think he sought her so tenderly only to find the points of weakness to pry, to pull, to yank out in spools of entrails of brain mater (wherever it was he opened her, wherever it was he tasted her first) for they, so anxious and discreet in the long hours they wasted away, would often – never admitting to being frightened – tug on the thread of a loose seam and pull and pull until it was unraveled, at once despairing at their waste, their arbitrariness, and yet – congratulating themselves on their capacity to destroy.

Pulling his hand away, their mouths gasping, seeking something – oxygen, another cock – parted and rose and into them each pressed the pomegranate freshly chopped, juices gushing in pearl necklaces of dew, lciking down throats with its sweetness the tang of blood which clung to their fingers – so she would bite so its juices would flow sticky down her chin, into the crook of her neck and into the cleavage of her breast, settling there in sugary pondscum to leak out as the Joeys pressed her tits, grinding them as rinds to the juicer to taste of what succulence they bore; fetid rosewater with which to anoint their dicks, slurped off by worshippers near and far.

Some, they turned and so some had taken them by the nostrils, pinched and given no choice but to relent for an opening into which the rinds too entered their mouths, swallowing handfuls of seeds which swirled as rosaries around tongues tied to cat o' nine tails in the pert soft flesh sluiced milky and tart.

The White Cliffs

Reaching for his brother, the Jacekobeans seized the lapels of the Joey jackets and tore clasps apart first to crunch their leather, straining as the bolted rivets came unstuck, expose the smiles of zippers wry and vertical, unclasping rows of teeth with one hand straight down his left as with his righ he raised to the Joeys chin and diverted his gaze from her onto him – into his eyes now looking, his reflection in miniature and not on the mirrored pool behind him in which he could see his brother's back (the heaving muscles upon his back, traps near conical as he sat upright) – for the Joeys lost themselves freed to the air, the cuts of their striated shoulders, the long downy arms on which their biceps were fat and their forelimbs veiny as their knuckles gnarled so ape-like and hairy despite how slender his fingers remained – for each Joey, prick still fat as he fucked his sister, reached from the fuschia tar of her breasts to the blood-tar of his brother's jacket, and - bracing against each other, one hand each on the other's shoulders – the Joeys pulled the Jacekobean jackets open, splattering blonde smiling dopey faces so impressed with his size, his bravado, growing drunk off their pit smell reeking and pleasantly miasmic in the air as spritzes of something floral, they saw too now teeth dripping with still-wet blood and smiled all the broader, so intrigued at these mechanisms of metal freshly-threshed as the multiple meanings of 'tooth' and 'teeth' played in their heads, too alive now to even make any sense of the associations coming so fast, simply storing them away for later unknotting in a thumb war of their own making they'd twiddle away in the boredom of some other no one, speaking twenty words into a two word sentiment – remembering, remembering, always the charm and the devilry, the noble savagery which was the beauty of his brother, how he looked at you always pin-point and bony as the die, snake-eyed with a focus which didn't suspect you for it so nakedly revealed you – down the long creaking of leather, the teeth sang, exposing the white cotton rib, so soft and freshly spun, matching yours, clean for a drip here and there, the braces tight over his traps, clenching, pinching, harnessing him like a showpony or stallion, you wished to see him yoked to a plow forced to grunt, to yowl, to clamor bitten by his headpiece which would hold him tight, howling with the hatred in his eyes which was any restriction unearned of his right to life and love . . . your cock grew so fat it was no effort though your abs burned to thrust away thrust away as he took you by the shoulders seeming to crabwalk as he maintained eye-contact – descending, descending – and inserted himself beneath his sister – the hardwood of his prick tracing its way from her skull, down her neck, between her shoulderblades, down the small of her back as a felt-tip pen on the body of an anatomy model. She was marked by a silver line of pre as he held her half aloft by the pillows of his heaving pecs, the columned flourishes of his calves and knees -- she reduced to practically the sheet of a pane of glass in the table between them – slid his prick with an inaudible shush into her ass, each Joey and Jacekobean seeming to fall in – two swords to a single stone - and lock with her lap to lap ;-- she now writhing as a fingertrap between them, as each could look past her directly into the other's eyes and hold their gazes rapt to each other.

of Dover

One of each of the pair of the Bruxites – the feed being life ) live ( – did not induce camera lag which masked a jump cut as they reached for their uniform jackets and (the whole of them seeming undone at the seams) pull away as if on-hangers to reveal sheer pink lingerie on their fat pussy-killer cocks -- each twirling a rifle as they did -- now danced with the fully-clothed pair who was not his reflection (nor the other his) each being upright, though both of them being upside down, looking up only at the floor, being neither mirrors on the ceiling, and all champagne on ice being read.

Joey (each of him) reached out to stroke Jacek by the hair.

You didn't love him. Not like Laika loved him. Not like you loved him, and yet – what was this thing inside of you which made you not hate him? Why did you allow – this man to do as he did, as though he did you a favor, he taking time you didn't need for things you couldn't have – what, oh vanity, for the whys of which you deprived yourself, he was you and what Laika partook of him was the shadow of a potential unfulfilled you saw now alive for the wonder that it was, and yet – what of you would you displace to make a home for this pale shadow within? What could be worth displacing to arrive at the lack which he had made his fulfillment? Why did you conspire with yourself to sneer when you merely knew what you stood for? It was simple despondency in being so limited, not being able to be you and this man, this man and Laika, for if you contained within you the whole of the cosmos (all potentialities lying dormant) then you were not more than you merely were (however accomplished you might claim yourself, being proud of your accomplishments for they were yours) you felt in him, despite your contentment, despite the fire which roared within you -- threatening to blanket all impurities first in smoke then in ash -- some draft or feeding air which opened you within him ~ your hand on his face, feeling you and fucking her ass harder and faster as you raced rougher and with greater precision to match his – she coiling between you in a cocoon of flesh, lost in undulations or inland sea upheavals too massive to commit to anything approaching a word ~so lost, so lost, so lost, a tempest, a ghost ship, an icewall crumbling to teeter us over the edge of the world, still you looked to him, and he – smiling dopey toothy like a wolverine or small musky carnivore which was the size of a bear or truck, yet retained despite its giganticism all the scrappiness of its miniature counterpart, some ferocity which was sly and experimental and you regretted only that your cock needed be in her cunt and was not already in his mouth, for he would gobble you down so slick and you could smack him hard enough he would smile all the harder if he layed one serrated dge of tooth in the wrong place, to dive back onto your knob with a crisp firm 'Yes, sir!' and he fucked you to please her, by which you meant he fucked her to please you, and somehow his fucking your man was the equivalent of consuming table-scraps he felt unworthy to order himself, or couldn't pay for with credit he couldn't check, and to find him shortchanged was a mutual bargain bin affair, the discount not at all measured against the illusion of a higher price, if not value. Things being where they were and lacking, for there was lack in all living things and you being full of life were thus filled with lack, death being freeing for it released all burdens, nothing lying dormant in a something which was an everything and he, he, he -- had so much more despite how little he had, you needed to kiss him, could no longer stare, needed to press past her; graze her cheek to cheek, ear to ear, hair entangled with his, as his lips so right, his cheeks, you couldn't stop, needing to bury your face in his, could smell him overpowering her, the heat of him warming you, enveloping you in patches, places you thought you didn't know, sights and sounds long forgotten coming not as color, but as cloudbursts and you couldn't was only a word you'd never heard, having him, enslaving yourself to him though he was only some image, some living thing, some thing which simply enraptured you and failed to possess you for you mastered him and he mastered you and you were stitched together at rebirth, conjoined like twins eight pack abs to eight pack abs by the loom of Laika's golden thread, neither he, nor you, nor He, ever being as fruity as Brux.

LLAMA LLAMA

LA LA MAMA

LLAMA LLAMA

LA LA LAAMB

Brux couldn't ruin it by being fruity. Brux couldn't accomplish anything, anytime, anyplace anywhere but as a good cornhole for cocksucker cock, he himself being the finest among them, being the fittest and most astute of all straight boy faggots.

( I AM ALL GAYER

THAN ALL THE GAY BOYS PUT TOGETHER

I AM NEXT LEVEL

HETEROSEXUAL DUMBASSERY

YOU WISH YOU WERE AS BIG

A STUPID BITCH AS BRUX!)

Proud that you could admit that, son.

(Framed note from his commanding officer. – ed)

Brux – having now succeeded in upstaging Laika – would earn the ultimate reward.

LLAMA LLAMA

LA LA MAMA

LLAMA LLAMA

LA LA LAAMB

Though his helm of crystal he removed and no crown shone on the weight of his head, from the providence of that head, it hit you as it emanated – right between the eyes – he looked round to behold salt seas of gore and snowfields of stone and saw that it was good.

You throw his bones

over

She watched him -- the Head Sister. The Head Sister watched not the heads of her sisters; watched not even him, but Joey and spurned him rightfully for she could never become him, never be loved by him as He was for she could never understand him.

Simple to delineate so simply what she lacked and for what she hungered... it left her an empty vessel to be filled only by the scorn of her betters, the ultimate humiliation she craved by enduring it so passively. Fat airy dyke. Sperger cunt could never be loved, particularly one so cold its every heaving pound of flesh recollects the sterile conditions of deli counters, hanging limp as freshly butchered chickens under plate-glass pale and pockmarked in the fluorescents. I spit at you gladly, yet you open with gusto!

The Head Sister lived only to deceive him. She delighted endlessly in finding one so supposedly bright, it pleased her most to pull the wool over his eyes to have a button-down-eyed profiteer in burlap being always the potatoes to the meat fattening you up with her hearty grains. I hate food. Laika likes sugar. Feed Laika more sugar! Laika likes cheese danishes and blueberry muffins most. Latke loves cherries and strawberries, the more real the goo the better!

Laika likes to dissolve stable bodies down into sugary run-off fit to slurp and smear it all over his faces, his hands, his nipples, his dick and have cute dumb racist polack boys lick it off his knob.

Is Jacek racist? I don't fuckin think so. I think he's too stupid to care what race a cock he's sucking is. That's not projection cause I am very smart. Bro, I am a connoisseur of Jock cock. I have secret Not-See tomes which evaluate and compare – reams and reams of data, cocks of all shapes sizes and races to deduce with my very real and unbiased approach which people-group objectively has the best cock, but I will not divulge that information publicly. No siree.

You are not fit to behold the Holiest of Holies which is Laika's Objective Material Science Natural Law Not-See Cock Catalog ) VERY REAL SCHIENCE – NOT FOR PROLES ( as this but one treasure among many. (I did not get them from Joey. They are not his. Why can't Laika have his own secret Not-See paraphernalia without everyone assuming they're his German boyfriend's? I am just as complicit in atrocities as he is! It don't matter how much of a secret Not-See Joey is he seems to zero interest in cock despite being a giant fucking cocksucker. It is so weird to me how sexless and robotic he is, sometimes I just want to bash him over the head with a hammer until he stops being such a tranny robot.

Why is he a tranny robot? I don't know. I just always feel like I'm changing sex when I'm phasing in and out of states of matter? Is that weird? Pretty sure sex is primarily an energetic phenomenon to begin with, our hormonal-molecular reality following from blah blah Bach. Big bro makes me write a lot. I'm tired and lonely. I need to be held constantly and by different men every night because I have no attention span and am scared of everything. Help! Help, I am an injured cat! Why is nobody taking care of me! When did I become an injured cat? I'm a dog boy. Woof. Woof. I am not an injured cat! Where am I getting all this injured cat energy? Is it Big Leo Dick or Black Panther over there? Would I find Jacko hotter if he was actually black? I think he's black in the one place it counts most! By which I mean on the inside. His heart is burnt toast that the evil sex frat master daemon makes me scarf down along with the ashes of the burnt offerings he makes me mix into the espressos I offer him. Holy fuck, mix me some bonmeal in my pancakes! Dick throbs up so hard when big bro daemon pledgemaster daddy makes me eat garbage to amuse him and remind me of what a dumb horny ape I am!

Holy fuck.

What the fuck was I talking about before I was pulled of-course on that insane splintering tangent about gibbering minituae-based nonsense? I am clearly a poet who know it, much like my big bro who is the best and has the tastiest cock. Laika has two big bros the way some girls have two mommies. Laika is the luckiest boy in the world. Laika is so Blessed, he should go out and get a bunch of really gaudy tattoos and then get shot in a drug deal and look good doing it!

Wow.

What other stupid shit gets me hot?

I will, from this day forward, only bother everyone. I am the biggest bother, being the littlest brother! I am a burden on everyone and I am such a needy, covertly-abusive cockhole I deserve to be punished by constantly being starved of all affection and denied not only attention, but the space to be, speak or breathe!

I have no rights! I am a dumb horny faggot and women have every right to step on my balls and colonize my mind and recruit me into proxy wars against my brothers!

Holy fuck!

I am putting some things together.

I am not fucking paranoid. You know maybe I am sometimes but also you won't fuckin hold me cause I'm already insane! I'm thinkin it's pranoiac by injection! I exist to annoy cause you exist to annoy me! I deserve to be in the trash because I'm so belligerent and weird and unstable and I take up too much of people's time!

Wow.

I'm Gonna Do It, By My Own I Surf.

Feigned Will Be Gone,

I am Won By Dawn ~.

Laika is the Dog Star fell to Earth.

the White Cliffs

of Dover

From the conjunction of the second crow's nest, Cpt. Schreibermachen and Cpt. Psychorrhagia – whom Laika knew each as Joey and Jacek – saw not Brux's burly beef bod fully-clothed outside the gameworld in which he was not immersed in the neon gloom of a dark where the dim glow of the monitors sheens his leather as a terror of liquid metal gives a reverse cowgirl Elektra-tier crazy dance while he tried his best to ignore her, but instead in a real treefort! ~ ! Naked and just as buff as he truly was, beholding himself in a mirror of peeled oak (so that we may be very clear on details never very clear!) for they had no need to pay him any mind, and he thankful – wishing instead to focus on the fruits of his earnings – for they were enraptured in Laika and what he conjured on the dance-floor (this all being improvisational, you see ~ with only a plethora of subroutines which composed individual patterns committed to memory such as secret moves and combos to compose a verbal dictionary of movements which Laika may collectively invoke piece-by-piece, to arrange as if a mosaic in space-time, a live L– as if a spelling bee not in sound but sheer linguistics of silent motion, this all ultimately being recitation, that all being a parrot is capable of, seeing and doing all a monkey being :-- being monks so funky!)

They could feel, as if bursting open blockades in their memories, cheese and meat-sodden constipation of emotions, some backflow from these events to which they had lent their bodies, their weights, their external memory banks, these duplicates which impressed on space and composed anchorings in time and place, shieldings by windstorms every silent and invisible drama which courses beneath your spoken speech, oh love ~ be never alone for I have loved you, and you have known me without speaking and any word could only deceive us. Never speak to me. Never disgrace me. Never lie to me by committing any falsity unto the air in which we will breed only tangents amounting as children to silent screams for help. Never deceive me by a promise which could never be kept. Never speak to me and mar the imaginative dreamings which make you so much more than you. Never open yourself to the truth and ruin yourself for your words beget only ruin. Cruel silent stares, you keep us silent vigil in the dark, and I am most proud for you are most noble, never stop being my brother. If ever you could speak, we would only shatter and being already so broken, I could not endure the weight of your words upon me, for what rainstorms you conjure I barely weather through the blue skies of that sweet reproach, the every-resilient mercy that I condemn only myself through you, your eyes being my eyes, and in them seeing only my failings, my yearnings, my hopes in prayers expressed in the edifice of you, on which he and I are posed always as archangels and gargoyles in archetypes, night beasts and the beasts of space, flying in on weather wings to collect the dead men rendered brains in vats. Speak to me over the radio. Video kills only lies and regrets. Rodeo, rodeo. Someone still loves you.

Joey's arm held the cap of Jacek's shoulder.

Jacek's eyes lingered on Joey's lips.

In his nerves he could only hate him so much stabbing him with arrows of light into every dead socket radiating out ultraviolent gems two quarters in half-bennies a whole mint Franky'd I fuckin hated how stupid he made me feel like all I wanted to do was stick my dick in pussy hatin steroid needles jabbed into my skin, which yeah – is absolutely all I want. I'm like a wrench. I need to be held by the handle and manually rotated otherwise I will cease to operate. Holy fuck. That sounded way worse and way better than it could have ever sounded in my head. I don't even think about it. That's ultimately the quality that makes me feel like I'm always winning and why I deserve to fuck his boyfriend. He will sit there for three hours trying to compose the perfect sentence like a dumbass, killing all the imperfect sentences I think of. Meanwhile, I'll just say it cause I thought it. He never thinks to think about it. He's like – I'm gonna destroy you with pure willpower. Bro, destruction is effortless. I'm literally murdering three people right now without even trying. Everything that gets close to you dies. I have seen you incinerate people on contact and I honestly think you block it out. It is amazing how mentally ill you are sometimes and don't even realize it. Bro, it's no wonder the natives try to appease you with blood. You don't even notice they're butchering each other cause they think it'll make you happy. Bro, why the fuck they think you want blood so bad? Bro, do you have any fucking idea how sick that shit is?

Joey – wanted to bash Jacek's fucking skull in with his cock.

Jacek – really wanted to see Joey try.

Clenching his shoulder as though the hand had given voluntary retraction now involuntary (Strangelove syndrome hardcoded in his every cell, paperclipped straight onto the mitochondria) he stared at Jacek's eyes, at Jacek's lips. He stared at Jacek's face near and far and it hurt how much he loved him for simultaneously was the pull to render him unto ash as it was to surrender to him for he needed to be saved and could save you through the art of himself and in this total stillness, you could not be, nor act, nor think, but simply compose to stay composed, some loop always playing not on-repeat but never-ending, it finding not resolution but encroaching harder and harder on some decimal which was a dead-end always splintering into ever more redundant clarification but being cut off only ~

Jacek pressed his tongue to the inside of Joey's mouth.

Joey – didn't know what was going on.

Joey had no reasons to think of bedrooms he never knew where he didn't see anything he never should have saw, for everything Joey saw was of note and Joey didn't know everything but Joey already had all the answers and just needed to put the pieces together. His father whom had never known but had found in his big bro had appointed him the case, and he was now World's Greatest Detective, being not defective, beholding not the irradiated earth from inside the moon, Elijah having always come, his kingdom done, his will undone (mine won).

Jacek could never blame Joey when it was Jacek's job to protect him. Jacek was a boy just as Joey was a boy and if they had no one they could have only waited til they found each other.

Who are you?

Joey weren't goin to cry, though the tears were as plentiful as his drool. He was choking Jacek not around the throat, but with his lips, mashing knuckles to the back of his head, he could scarcely move his arms which stiffened and bolt'd upright as a broom dangling two marionette strings as Jacek sat twisting him. Had seized hold harder and was twisting him. Shifting effortlessly by the waiver of hands up the small of his back to gain some tangle of scoliosis he seemed drawn to as though the stiff bearpaws of his fingers crept inlaid with sodder of dowsing wands oiled up his spine as honey in his brain oozing out eyes and mouth. Jacek smiled with his teeth and tongue, probing deep his brother's face-pussy, eating out the cunt which lead up to the brain, propagating in hot springs blister flesh of serrated bores willing even to press the hook of his tip up his nostrils and rip out the sweetmeats directly as a cherry-knot of tracheostomy.

Joey – didn't fuckin know why he humored this son of a bitch other'n he was the best and the most correct and his cock looked the tastiest and you wanted to kiss him til he was solvent.

And into

the sea

Brux saw now the shattering of the pane of glass emanating out the center of his head -- as if a sniper shot hit him cleaving his corpus callosum in twain, his skull shattered like the heft of a black walnut as from the fires of her cunt his reflection engulfed him in streaks of burnished fire in a brazier always lit where gold glimmers always on the spill of a forge poured out to give grace to vermin, embossing bones in the troughs here deep beneath the earth which we inlaid with precious stones the coverings over the dead, they who stood once invalid, stringed with perishable meat long eroded off the bone we honored as the memories we kept alive in spirit and song and arts we rejoined in preservation, by painting over with fancies which would outendure sense as well as sentiment, we deceiving only death, She being a liar and a quitter.

The tear in her eye a diamond in her drink, she stood fabulous in this room lit only for her, whose reality she had transformed by the light she made of him, for across all corners of the walls, inlaid in their metallic gratings, the etchings of characters stamped by fabulous natural processes of the construct dazzled for their terse reality was the bedrock of all beauty -- dust though it was, and dust though it or any other thing, here and now, now or to come, could only ever be.

the sea of

Rome

Onto the earth, the monuments hammered. The busts of Emperor Caracalla who He Patroned with His Tribute and was Now Beloved of Menes, who saw in the Moon his own masculine form, fell as stonehenge around the mound of green growth (blown in the wind) on which Laika stood, though the tri-layer was of stone, it had succumbed once more to the land, retaken by the elements which shot forth all vegetation as a thousand years passed in the blink of an eye and all which was new was old again, and all which was old stayed eternally young.

Laika, raising his arms flaunted the depths of his pits. The fir forests black in the depths of these hilly lands which plunged. Smiling, his meaty calloused dim-witted face so cruel in its testosterone glow, yet his eyes remained eerily vulgar for they were so alive with the lechery that was his love of life, he could desecrate only all by becoming, depriving us of that loveliness which was his blankness, he being so serene as he was our willing slave.

Around him, in the dust where once the Statues of Diana stood, in the light dim as countenances whose savviness once had lead them, shone as lanterns in the mineral dusk Shrine Maidens holding torches they sheltered by their own hand, all which were candles in their bones, bowed as Virgins, bowed as Mothers, their fat tits and mastectomy scars well-hid by the veils of their robes, keeping well habit with the covenant they kept.

One remained. Proud. Stark. Naked but of her predatory serenity which was the genius of the eternal desecration, incidental for all who looked upon her begged simply to be punished.

As if a rabbit to a dance, the stones leapt with him.

As if rabbit from a hat, he twirled with her through the trees which weren't there.

(The Laikanite men held out their palms -- and to her they bore them figs.)

Leading her up the steps, though she can only crawl, being of a singular nude of a singular block, still she strides upright before our eyes, no trick is she – Laika reading cards as if memory by will alone – saw her twirling, walking hand in foot with him, in an octopus' garden always arriving, abusive male otter tactics to ransom pup for food, horrid creatures those foul and furry, nostril-twitching river wyrms! (hunted to extinction if not for their pelts, then for their lols) where he, at the top of the shrine he'd erected to himself, placed her whom he'd selected, his singular marble, turning now to himself in the space he'd made for her, this clamshell which was the jagged and slippery stepping stone of his heart by a white water rapid, pressing from his beater, its downy white cotton fibrous in the blinding light – the milk of his wounds flowing red as cherries which never lied, jammed as the radio over which he heard no appeals, only coastlines of endless static – to streak her face in a painted half-mask so much familiar to the secret of him.

And murder

She Who Laika Selected, her blind-eyes all seeing, turned in the flesh-like plasticity which had come over the stone to rotate her neck and gaze into the mirrored room in which Head Sister Who Was Ninth could not See Herself. Drawing arrow from quiver, the bull-horns of the crescent moon always crowning the wild tangle of her hair she laureled only by braid, she laid and let fly that which she would never see coming – shattering on impact with her the bondage of pussy-power over which she held her little world at sway. To think she was entitled to so little, and to cling to it so desperately – for this all would be taken from her. To think that she could feel others so acutely entitled to her abundant little – for this she would suffer tremendously.

In Ostia

Into that room she watched closely, her eyes now drawing closer as her head collided with the glass, the velocity of the arrow ripping out her eye by the socket to yank it forward on a pull-cord of optic nerve. Against the glass, broken into panes through which we could see nothing but the moth-eyes of some ember by the illusion of firewood in what faint candle-light still shone, the mask of her face fell away in gobs of wax, and as the sculpt of her own eye looked up, she could see into some shape beneath, the front of the orb freshly-cut as it was secreting tears from ducts which weren't there, liquefying away in pearly streams of quicksilver to expose the corpse of the Drowned Gentleman Catboy whiskers wet as muffs in his Victorian jacket and bowler hat, emerald-eyes splendid in the wild cypress-scented nights they invited alone.

O >> ... //,\

Chunks of meat blowing out the Joeys heads as their pleasure-centers drive to overload each drools a long fat-lipped streamer of silt water from pink lips plump as dick-kissers onto clean beaters as bursts of image-fury-sound and-motion takes over totally and dislodges husks of broken microchips into sparks of fireflies in the summer air.

/// \0/ /// .. <<

The Jacekobeans, the Joeys ~ yanking their cocks from the contented to weary holes of the sisters, lost of all orientation in storms of their making, lay encoiled in themselves on the heaps of their gowns begging the final desecration which would push them free from the lunacy they so willingly invited by retaining the water of their wombs.

For a flash-pan, the camera wobbles as we see eight look-alikes for the Fit and Able we incinerated chilling off-stage in a breakroom greenscreen downing coffee and donuts, assuaging those most enlightened among us that this could only ever be a joke, this springtime business-as-usual.

( o )

The last great gong rang out.

Black winds billowed from the procession now stopping to catch themselves in the final collision of sound and light, silence and space.

The streets of London Town timbered to rubble as their bridges fell always down, hoarding these treasures of antiquity which elsewhere they eradicated with the peoples who were their own, in houses emptied but of the shoeboxes in which they stored what valuables they could carry, living always to lie another day. A cloud of fire came down carrying with it the cobweb of time, and all stone and metal structures burnt in mystery, countless false histories seared away, so from their eyes came sights splendid and serene joyous and hateful which in their guts which were alive and their bones still geothermal with marrow, they had always known and deceived themselves half-willingly , only for it was not now time to come forward, no longer being content for the lie of the settled self.

The men, cheeks and foreheads mounted as elbows to wrestle or legs to bend, met eye-to-eye and stroked their meat, pounding it harder faster stronger smarter for it was time to end time to end time to arrest all momentum by the moment of completion, coming at last to the inevitably pre-ordained which our pre ordained.

Gushers of nut smeared finger paints over war faces churning colors as pulp gradients within the viscosity eclipsed in their flowing. Hair matted and honied molasses, it would stand on end waters rising round their ankles, the collective brine of swamp mucus in the savor and sweet decomposing all into mildews influencing and exotic.

( )

And again, for a final time it rang.

From the floor they all three jumped to run a lap.

The Sisters peeling off their blindfolds as the Jacekobeans smack them on the asses, chasing the Joeys chasing the Jaceks.

Their round muscular hindquarters, the hard inverted wishbones of their v-tapers, the cobblestone mosaics of faces unseen in the chewtoys of abs hungry for meat and fiber and milk, gnarled and creeping things seeking to root deeper, cavorted in giggles open and brawny.

Circus stables open.

Into them, the legion came and went.

The camps opened. In the open air prisons, collegiate daycares of the 20th century, the citizens who were dependent, who drank down every drop which was offered, went there of their own volition and nurtured themselves on death, taking each prick gladly and with the pride of all proceeding prior commitments none had asked to make, but whose gentle coercions they submitted to gladly, craving the abnegation of thought in some other's responsibility; demanding a story with which to cover themselves like fitted sheets in sleep, bringing about their dream and the dream of their owners and pet beaters: voluntary extinction. Consensual genocide, non-manufactured.

For choice being the most precious gift of all, we gave it always gladly away. All who would choose death, would give themselves gladly.

A romance never-ending, always beginning.

. . .

Laika danced, Laika danced.

Raising his arms, smiling as he was bathed in the suns which were two, now east and west, though the day always done, it was always new, and so he took it by the horns, being the bull he was.

He danced not that he might be seen, but that he might be without mattering if he is or not, for he may wax and wane in and out of sight, being always more what sparse luminance may be given him, chilly most on darkest nights when he was full.

From his dance, watching himself being watched, he gains the perspective of the legion and sees how little it's worth, how much he sees.

#lil bro energy #douchebrah trash #garbage day #just the two of us #just dance #what the fuck is going on #what the hell #lajka

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