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BLANKS
Calliroes Sinus, a red-cratered tunnel to eternity, the blistering cold of subheat comatrauma.
How do we see here? How do we breathe? How does the child of the moonglow grow?
Rapaciously, voraciously.
How’s the kitchen?
Vicious dishes bite snarlrarl.
Ollie ollie oxen free.
Here we go loop-de-loo.
We’re blanks. We’re all blanks here, before phasing in. Tabula rasa.
Have you seen the plaque by the doorway, nightglim slipping over the polished brass: Illegitimi Non Carborundum. Good advice. Take it. Run with it. Never run with scissors.
In night’s tender moments we see everything there is that can be, and it’s nothing. Our eyes go blank until all we perceive is our own plea. There’s no one else in the room just the blinding flash of the nice softhairs, the delicious wetheat pulsing, oozing genitalia in excesstasy on this cold cold night.
Speaking in semaphore means you don’t talk but you still communicate. As long as the recipient understands. Maybe they don’t comprehend at all. Signals and symbols tumble into a void. She doesn’t sense anything but unbearable pleasure, thickened friction, our eyes are blanks and I fade into the pleasurehaze myself, gone. How does this child, Love, this Moonchild, grow?
Rapaciously, viciously, with a snarl. Hack out your own heart and it will doggedly regenerate, hack it out again. And again. Before too long you’re chopping up your own heart in anticipation of the inevitable, leaving people dumbfounded and blank, wondering why. Then one day it doesn’t grow back. Or maybe it did, but it’s small and dark, a stone in the cold depths of an ocean, crustaceans scrambling over the salty surfaces. |
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