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| Second Note from the Recorder by mrs. johnson 08/21/2003, 2:31am PDT | ||||
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| A flowering sexual condition, not quite a disease, suffocates the self appointed heroes. Within lust the fiction of love lives like a leech on the skin. Only alive until noticed, then removed with force and disgust. Temporary and reliant on blood for sustenance. She, the all-woman, cries, waiting. Men come and go, bringing flowers and pieces of paper smeared with their blood to her doorstep. Each man hopes for self indulgence and eventual immortality. Ultimately, the gifts clog her door, and she is unable to leave. No matter, she has no wish to. Sustenance isn’t important. Hunger shall bring ye closer to god. To yourself. The thinner you are, the less of you there is to understand. A gimmick really, a throwaway necessity for meaning, for something that holds sway over the largest structure. Within the quivering and unstable understanding there is a fatal flaw, lying in the fact that an erection may dispel all fears and questions. It ties you to the earthly body. Holy Communion disturbed by earthly needs. Requirements, even. It is possible to treat physical upkeep as a necessity, but sex has no such hold, especially since it can be performed for no purpose at all but pure pleasure. Unequivocal pleasure. Go on; reach towards the center of your body. Place your hand over what lies there. Your problems shall leave for a few seconds, if you hold your hand there long enough. That is the tie, what keeps you from floating away. When death comes knocking on your door, you can keep it waiting as long as you are misusing evolutionary intentions. As long as you have dreams and visions of beauty, sensual and looking only for you.
the mrs. |
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Second Note from the Recorder by 08/21/2003, 2:31am PDT  It's so boring and pointless. ;_; by 08/21/2003, 4:28am PDT AGREED. by 08/21/2003, 12:06pm PDT Thank you for the suggestions. NT by 08/21/2003, 12:21pm PDT Re: AGREED. by 08/21/2003, 1:20pm PDT Happy to be your target. NT by 08/21/2003, 1:22pm PDT |
