Juxtaposition by Alp Mortal
I’m waiting you see; for the one. The one that I’ll … no, it’s too special to talk about here. I don’t want these words to be ground like a cigarette butt under your heel or used as a coaster for your glass.
Will the value of the gift be appreciated or, more likely, be commented upon in the same way in which one might say how neat the wrapping was?
If the box is ruined how do you keep the memories safe for the years to come? When I’m old and worn out, I want to take the box down from the attic, blow the dust off and lift the lid, gently moving the tissue paper to one side.
Seduction like carmine red roses, which fall and anaesthetise the ear to the cruel thorn of the lie. All those lies like the bramble creeper; the blood of the cuts, lubricating its passage ... but the fruits taste sweet.
Here we are. My throat is like the sand clock except the vase is made of sand and there are shards of glass running through its neck, and I dare not swallow and constrict it further. My emotions are straight-jacketed and their mouths are gagged. This was meant to liberate them not incarcerate them.
These gifts he bestows on me are without price; no queuing or bartering for the priceless ones.
The warm and wet shallow grave of my virginity is to be filled in at last.
He’s inside me; my winged protector. His wings caress the tissues, fanning his sweet breath over the tight membranes. That guy at the sauna had a dick just as long but it looked like the handrail at Victoria Tube Station. I don’t want thousands of strangers’ fingerprints defiling me; one overlaying the other until, in the end, the smudge of the ink will be just a black canvas.
He’s big and it hurts … I want the agony; the bruises of the prize-fighter; bloodshot eyes and dried blood beneath my nostrils.
Fuck me.
He cums.
The glass of the sand-clock is ground into these membranes and we will be young and beautiful forever. We will scatter the sand like ashes and say goodbye to him; he, the child I was.
He had wings; at least, I thought he did. They were wings but the leathery kind with barbs along the edge … and claws. What I thought were the tips of the wings caressing my cheeks were, in fact, the scalpels, preparing the death head. I think I was a kind of trophy.
Love; it was all I ever wanted.
I got this.
I have no more need of the judge or the jury to decide who is worthy and who should be allowed to proceed. None come. The dock is empty. There are no accused, accusers, defendants or witnesses left to testify.
Will the value of the gift be appreciated or, more likely, be commented upon in the same way in which one might say how neat the wrapping was?
If the box is ruined how do you keep the memories safe for the years to come? When I’m old and worn out, I want to take the box down from the attic, blow the dust off and lift the lid, gently moving the tissue paper to one side.
Seduction like carmine red roses, which fall and anaesthetise the ear to the cruel thorn of the lie. All those lies like the bramble creeper; the blood of the cuts, lubricating its passage ... but the fruits taste sweet.
Here we are. My throat is like the sand clock except the vase is made of sand and there are shards of glass running through its neck, and I dare not swallow and constrict it further. My emotions are straight-jacketed and their mouths are gagged. This was meant to liberate them not incarcerate them.
These gifts he bestows on me are without price; no queuing or bartering for the priceless ones.
The warm and wet shallow grave of my virginity is to be filled in at last.
He’s inside me; my winged protector. His wings caress the tissues, fanning his sweet breath over the tight membranes. That guy at the sauna had a dick just as long but it looked like the handrail at Victoria Tube Station. I don’t want thousands of strangers’ fingerprints defiling me; one overlaying the other until, in the end, the smudge of the ink will be just a black canvas.
He’s big and it hurts … I want the agony; the bruises of the prize-fighter; bloodshot eyes and dried blood beneath my nostrils.
Fuck me.
He cums.
The glass of the sand-clock is ground into these membranes and we will be young and beautiful forever. We will scatter the sand like ashes and say goodbye to him; he, the child I was.
He had wings; at least, I thought he did. They were wings but the leathery kind with barbs along the edge … and claws. What I thought were the tips of the wings caressing my cheeks were, in fact, the scalpels, preparing the death head. I think I was a kind of trophy.
Love; it was all I ever wanted.
I got this.
I have no more need of the judge or the jury to decide who is worthy and who should be allowed to proceed. None come. The dock is empty. There are no accused, accusers, defendants or witnesses left to testify.
