Means to an End

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In the early hours of the morning, an ostrich stumbles into the road as I wake from troubled dreams involving the blushing cat girl and the stench of gasoline. I live in England, yet my dreams take me close to Salk Lake City. I know nothing of this place save that Ted Bundy murdered several women there. So many years ago they fell; so many cycles of life they never got to taste. The weather has calmed and outside everything is still except for the ostrich that walks up and down the pavement looking at the stars. Parked cars as planets; cities as galaxies. Somewhere out there, you’re sleeping with a head full of dreams. If I could, I’d wipe them out and pour my madness into that skull of yours, yet for now, I’ll drink my wine and imagine what the world would look like ravaged by a plague. A kingdom for misanthropists; a haven for loners wishing only to gaze at their reflections until they succumb to whatever. I try not to think of you; only I can’t help it. Self-abuse follows as I place you beneath me on a beach someplace in South America. While others are hacking themselves apart with machetes and being burned alive in myriad slums, I’m giving you all I’ve got as hot sand gets between your toes and inside your mouth. As much as I love you, I need to dominate; to reduce you until you’re gone. Life exists only in the seconds after climax, and with a belly full of my oil as the moon disappears behind a blanket of clouds, you move beyond time. A gust of wind. A shimmer of light across the ceiling. Only human, yet conscious minds aware of absolutely everything. Deny what they tell you and walk a different path. Even when they deride your efforts, keep your head down and stick to your guns. The spiral of your ear; the spirals in theΒ curls of each lock of your hair. They’re miracles- like each breath of air you release onto my chest. Like so many moments perfectly aligned with our heart’s desires, hours pass and sensations fade. Doesn’t mean we can’t fight it, though. Doesn’t mean we can’t try.

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