This Is An Exit, Back

This is a way of leaving things behind. Of tasting things that were once real.

She’s looking into the future. She’s looking at stars that have been dead for years. There’s all the love in the world, hanging from her neck. All the dreams you could ever muster, floating inside her head. There’s nothing more jagged, than a broken promise, or a ghost with no home. Colliding egos and the trees that shelter tired flesh. All the women you’ve known, just laying there on dead leaves. Dripping droplets of blood, the branches that shelter them, give only sadness and pain. All the lonely ones, always empty and the same. They’ve been there for years, mute and cold as the world turns ever on. The forgotten ones, as sensual as old pornos. As inviting as the gates of hell, wrapped in black stockings and sighing something wicked. Effortlessly, and always regrettably.

Pretty looking girls, all hollow and plastic. Masters of mathematics and blowjobs. Of golden vanilla blah blah blahs. It’s like looking through a catalogue, a vast collection of mannequins with no substance. They sell cheapness, and they sell false deities (oh, those pious mouthed nothings). Tie them up and float them downstream, let them disappear never to return, let them drown along with the turds. Butchered in childbirth, disowned in childhood. The problems with living, the issues of believing. Lipless and grinning, always puking the same words from beginning to end. Beady eyed freaks, stunted little urchins. Dumb little fucks, breathing in the fumes of self remedy. A calamity, of nonsensical proportions, forever tumbling down the glass rabbit hole, that bores into her dazzling opaque mind.

In silence, she sits there eyes glazed over, the scent of scorched oil heavy in the air. Fingers stained and crooked with love.

Dimples and crumbling buildings, colonies of maggots and open wounds all festered and glorified. All traces of sex removed, all that remains are bleached bones. Hormones and sacred stones. Flies, circling the suns that gravitate around her hips. The scent of false heat, of bottled perfume on dusty table tops. Drawn curtains and lonely bedsheets, suffocating in the past. Desperately wishing to be born once more. In dreams, they cling to what was once warm blood. To what constituted passion. The bodies that danced, that performed in shadowplay. They created the energy, that allowed everything to follow. The linguistics of belief, of immovable faith. All that you see, was built upon their tongues. All that can be felt, came with the coming of their souls. In moments lost forever, yet never out of reach to those who want to taste it again.

Upon the saliva they swapped, the walls broke down around them.

And as the walls broke down in the middle of the night, all was lost and gained. In the blink of an eye, and in the heart of her lies, she collapsed upon herself once more.

This is an exit for something, a way of leaving things behind. The passing of removables, passing always.

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3 replies »

  1. When I meet writers with your style (a rare breed to be sure) I always wonder what they must be like in person. That’s neither here nor there, but behind this write, I couldn’t help but imagine.

    • Thankyou for the compliment, it means a lot πŸ™‚ If I had to describe myself.. Well I’m an only child and an underachiever. I’m educated but in a dead end job. People say I’m kind and friendly, but I’m a misanthropist at heart. I cling to the notion of love, but thrive on pain and anguish to fuel my writing. All in all a bit of a mess, but I’d like to think I was a good’un underneath it all. Just someone looking for a little magic x

      • Well whatever fuels your writing, it works well for you. And you’re welcome. I don’t do empty flattery so you may take that compliment with you to the bank and make a solid deposit with my kindest regards. πŸ˜‰

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