martes, 5 de octubre de 2010

Ripping Through Our Organs [Polka Dot Skirt]

Fou Rire, R.Galliano,

Ripping from within. Slowly tearing constraints apart
we revel in this condition; of the prey, the victim.
For we are a perverse lot of inhibited monsters,
passive-aggressive frauds, volatile as outer space.

Yet I urge and devour. 

As I undergo a mandate to wordlessly run my lighthearted fingers across a needy knee, towards a skeptical tight, up that polka dot skirt. Caressing the sweaty context, a mass of hairs, Venus, knotted tissues and somber vortexes. To rip, tear, disintegrate the panties and cast them to the well of oblivion and construct my wish.

Dizzy in lust, revealing the experienced condition we confront since the fall into symbols. Which are carved in our flesh!

Bond in solidarity through your body, your spirits,

your beasts, your phantom.
Those clandestine traumas you serve.
Veiled behind the panties, the mucus, and the persona.
Tucked away and buried.
Nonetheless the fingers are guided
by the most uncanny of messengers.
For they rejoice in enchanting,
in exorcizing by indiscretion.
Consuming reciprocally in continuous twirls
and conjurations of alerted tissue.
Aflame! Unintelligible! Omniscient!

I conceal everything and everyone. Just as you do.
You savory lass,
you juicy cunt,
you extravagant love,
you spiral of appetite.
For this single, most solitary instant.

Who would deny such slashing inclinations to inquire
the bloody vulva and the ass orifice, overabundant in carnage?
“Not I” we say.
Of course we say!

Yet to conquer and explore is the pure commander in our bordello, in the bus stop, in the trench, in the funeral, in the lab, in the work habitat, in traffic, even in your house. In all spaces that bear this most deceitful species of sapients who dare not let go of their categorical items. They who do not suffer with style. A nation of bad, repetitive fornication and stagnated itching.

For under the wet polka dot skirt we dwell, deceiving all actors, to play this double act. A rich drama full of simulacrums. Yet how could we be anything more beyond facades? For to exhibit our nasty filters, drunk in blood, saliva and cum is out of the question, no?

The aromas a soaked pussy can emanate are a holy complex of fractal extasys.
To ignite the sweet-sour droplets of dynamic sweat that materialize from a succulent hairy arm pit she nurtures, her inner thighs meshing together in multidimensional engagements of vast friction and interplay. Who would not instigate savagely at such phenomena? To search and assert that monsoon of mysterious metabolism. Licking, stroking covetously in unphantomable waves and patterns.

To revel in this.
To become and not become,
eternally until some demise would grant us liberty.
For the need to sense intensely, madly even, is at hand,
the most consecrated artifact of ritualism we can endure.
To be aware of you, for a second.
Spreading those legs, that ass, swelling,
wanting it all, and engaging that pleasure boldly.
Suffer it with impetus, as I do!
FOR I DO SUFFER! Posses and desire viciously,
you whore, you delicious tissue, you superior creature.
While you recollect antique ordeals of injure.

Finger deep within those inflated all engulfing edges.
Beating in rhythms. Burning rooms,
cages and powdered wigs.
Humans are not equal, sapients are not equal.
Forget that propaganda of foolish idiots.
You pathetic gentle men, you boring cunts.
We merely stay put and accept.
Lost in sapiency, how can you be a mere designer?
Letting others act upon you to satisfy them selves.
Perform! Take willingly! Usurp! Rape!
Conquer and pillage! You delightful polka dot skirt!
Wake up from your simulated modern apathy,
your slumber to lust. Rape me cruelly! I beg of you!

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