Roads Run Red


When I whip out my cock, I hear the crumbling of Turkish mountains as they rip and roar into the Black Sea. Gentle at first, like the ruffling of feathers, and then louder, and louder, like bombs dropping on churches in some middle eastern town where the roads run red from slit throats, and any number of nefarious beheadings carried out by looming silhouettes with bad posture. Mostly men, some children. Anyway, as I was saying. My cock. I’ve got it whipped real good, but as it swings about resembling the blade of a disproportionately small helicopter, I can’t help but think about those rusty knives as they gleam so menacingly in the heat of the sun. The way they go in and out, out and in, and then from side to side as some lost soul or other breathes his last while choking on a mouthful of dirt. They’ll be dirt under his fingernails too, and a dismal desire for some otherworldly apparition to appear and take the pain away just in the nick of time. Just the thought of it makes me clench my arse. My anus is so tight it could sharpen pencils. If I close my eyes and sniff the air, I can smell her pubic hair, and how it catches her scent like a Venus flytrap. Reminds me of those teenage dreams of mine where I would snatch a glimpse of Madonna’s pussy, and how when she spread it wide, I’d see hundreds of gnashing and nipping teeth in the folds of her labia. When I talk about Madonna, I don’t mean the singer, I mean the biblical one. Is that blasphemous? Is it in bad taste? Standing here as I look out the window, a cool breeze tickles me in the most intimate of places, but I’m so bleary-eyed and obsessed with faraway flesh that I don’t even notice. It’s not that I’ve lost my eye for detail, more that the older I get, the further detached I get from a world that fails to hold my interest. It’s not that I’m above all the details. The details work just fine, at least they did. It’s that I prefer the stillness of a starless sky in complete isolation from the world at large, for it seems those with whom I once shared my life have no time for flight of fancies such as mine.

X and I: A Novel and A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon UK

X and I: A Novel and A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon US

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