Mountains And Whores

As the rain falls outside, there are no mountains left to find. There were none to begin with, though. They were just illusions like everything else. Illusions of a sick mind, abstractions that my ill body refused to give up on. There have never been any mountains, beneath the sea or above it. I fabricated them for my own need, for some reason or other I couldn’t even know how to decipher. Or wouldn’t know where to end either. There’s just no telling with me. I don’t trust myself, not with these eyes. And not with this mind. This worm-like mess of a brain. How it operates is beyond me. It’s beyond my grasp, functioning on a level I know not of. It tells me there are mountains, it’s told me this all my life, only now I know it to be false. I went looking for them around the curves of her thighs. I knew the oceans hid her womb; that goes without saying. It’s something I’ve always clung to. How the days would pass with me just stood there on the beach, gazing at the deep blue abyss. Oh, the wonders it contained. The hidden joys of birth that flourished just out of view. I would’ve loved to have swum those waters, but the mountains called me away. They sang to me across the fields of golden corn, and above the heads of all the non-believers. Singing songs of love, I was hypnotized every time.

Those eyes. Those big, pretty eyes. Flowering with daggers and lies. Should’ve run when they had the chance. Should’ve grabbed that crucifix and burned it into her skull. Cast the demon out. Repel flesh and send the whore back to hell. It’s the only thing you can do. Only, she knew where the mountains were, and sometimes that’s all that mattered. You can’t forgive her, though. Do what you do and ask no questions. Hate like it’s as natural as breathing. Because really, that’s how it is, it’s how it’s always been. Resting my hands upon the sand, the core of what she is vibrates through the air. She’s invisible, like war. Like a plague with no meaning, some disease dressed up in black stockings wearing the scent of ripe fruit. The mountains are still there, only now you can’t see them. Smoking a cigarette and blowing smoke into cracked vases, I can feel the atoms dancing around me. Teasing, mocking. They know how desperately I need them. They know without them I can’t feel, yet all they do is laugh. They laugh like she does. Whores the lot of them. Clenching my fists, I taste a mouthful of wine and imagine what it would be like to strip them all down to skin and bone. If only I could reduce them like they reduce me. Maybe one day, I’ll do just that. With a stirring in the leaves, the trees will bend as I come across the horizon. Enlarged and red with rage, I’ll take them all out. All the cunts and fucks. They’ll all be hanging from beams as the mountains give in as I rush them one last time.

Categories: Sex

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