remissive

  It was never the wraith who kept on sweeping my mind clean from the clearness.

I am the ghost. I have always been.

  

  And the terrible howling throats... the wraith never made a merit of them.

It seems that at this very moment I'm mincing your back. Why are all the memories so deep with lust? It seems that at this very moment I'm feeling your randy clunky kissing. Sometimes I'd think you would choke with our love. Or with the lunacy. We both were choking with the immoderate vacuous thirst. Those short inebriate moments of truce, the cuddles of the irrational reality we were in... It leads to nothing. Balefully and ruthlessly. To that nothing brimful with smells, sounds and touch, where one swells till the fingers wrinkle so badly that one's already ripe for another flesh. Soul... for another one. 

(And then you heal)

Je suis pas morte. J'ai pas encore écrit mon livre.

Why do the rivers flow with crimson? It's not the fruits wallowing in the waters. It's not the gore dripping in the flows. It's the sheer welter bringing all the banshees up and voicing their oracles. The air rings with the throats of brass. I feel the freshet trickles between my toes...

  It was a story of a giant and a little girl. They were sitting on a bed. He, leaned upon the hills of books, was trying to fit into a space as small as possible. He wanted to fit on her lap, to nestle his heavy head up against a thumping tiny heart without breaching it. (Didn't he know it wasn't possible?) And she, who has fit her entire life on his pillow, was calmly looking at the tangle of anguish and could not distinguish the blue of his eyes from the blue outside, on the other side of the foul window. They didn't feel the fatal peril. But giants don't sleep in the pits of the stomachs of little girls. They don't.

He is neither in time, nor in space. He is sliding the dream's clock, he's flowing together with the flowing numbers. The only measures are tingles in the fingers, little needles in the eyes, quivers in the caches. Pleasant chill of the bodies and slowly springing warmth in the temples. As if plunging in a snugly warm bath water. The waves of touch rippling the cloth. The cloth, bound in smells and colours, is waving like warm water and is covering the skin. Hiding... but rather leaving both absolutely naked. More than naked.

  I'm watching the glass being infront. Yes, it does resemble a person-- the wight is wearing human skin, bearing human flesh. Indeed, truly believable. A scrumptious piece. A surprisingly vivid mask. Everywhere and only sleek and sloping lines. Yes, the florid matted something reflects the light, it latches onto my eyes and eludes leaving. Flows to the brain and demands to be fathomed out, believed in. But I do not, I don't believe it. Glass hair stroking the neck, fondling the shoulders, wantonly caressing. Still arms touching the sides. Warm auroral air tides throbbing around the being. The form even pretends to breath air. Breasts evenly surging, silently watching. Shadows intensely dancing on the soft round belly. The spent shadows calmly droop, stay where the secrets darkle  ...

 Still I do not recognise the glass being. I cannot trust it.

futuristic

What a girl now reads in her shiny hologram I once had in my hand.

Till the time got around and burnt my finger tips

With every each 451 Fahrenheit’s degree.

Oh the height!

The flames went straight above the shield and hit the bound like doves.

The flares jumped over a field and singed the last bee.

What a beautiful clear night...

The idea of a dinner party now is gulping down the pills of food.

We don’t have time for treats, do you?

And so we work, we rush so jammed and dull.

It’s sad how we forgot the good…

The worst of all is that we pay for hugs.

We have these pricey guests who smile for money and wear vests.

We hide from the war within ourselves but there’s no luck.

It’s on the tips of our tongues!

We run.