Lament

thesun

  Fade in. She’s riding me as if I were some prize bull at a rodeo, spinning up there, so far away, her head thrown back, her mouth open, noises escaping her barely pursed lips that are reserved for moments exactly like these and spent on nothing else. I’d like to say I was in the moment and focusing on nothing else except the the strange tightening and release, the squeeze of her inner cloisters around me, suffocating me to that crazy high, the earth pulls towards the sun towards the earth and the moon hangs as best it can as we get there, braving the storm together, putting a gun to our temples and blasting ourselves over the sheets and leaving nothing but the pressure of pleasure building, filling up our headspace cavity like some wonderful fix all.

  But I’m not. I’m not there. I’m as far away from her as she seems from me, further even, questioning the whys and the whats and the how-in-the-hells, scrutinizing the events that led to this moment, to this mindfuck of a moment. I’ve thrown it all away and I can’t even enjoy the process. The damage is in the doing and I’m doing it anyway. Go figure.

  The temple of the temple of the temple. We all pray to it. In its sanctified halls we rejoice in the demons we find within us all. They don’t take much coercing to rear their heads and ravage whatever presents itself. Each and every sacrificial lamb is devoured with aplomb until there’s nothing but blood and guts and viscera lining the floor. I’d like to say we don’t, I’d like to say there are some out there made of sterner stuff. Better stuff. But right now I just can’t believe it. Or don’t want to. To believe would be to admit that I’m the cunt of cunts – a measuring stick for all other cunts so they can relax and breathe a sigh of relief and say ‘guess I’m not such a cunt after all’. What they tell you is true. We get all the girls. For all the fucking good it does us. Obscure for the sake of being obscure, I hear you cry. Obscure for the sake of saving myself the suicide, I reply. I begin to burn in the sun’s outer rims of errant flame. Fade out. 

AUTHOR’S NOTE:
I’m a pretty darn happy guy all the time and – by most peoples reckoning – fairly mild mannered. Which is why I’m always so surprised when a spiel as depressing as this pours out of me. Talk about demons!

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~ by Joseph Blame on January 25, 2011.

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