There was a frail syrup dripping off
His lap danced lapel, punctuated by her
Decrepit prowl she washed down the hatching
Gizzard soft as a mane of needles
His orifice icicles hemorrhaged
By combing her torso to a pile
Perspired the trophy shelves made room for his collapse
She was a mink handjob in sarcophagus heels.
[ cassandra gemini . the mars volta ]
Locke de Tot AINSI [ il en sera ainsi ]
5'2".
when she looked up, the sky was grey, runover with ruddy rusts and mucky browns. the destritus of clouds in the overcast sky hung low, soggy and waterlogged and too heavy to float in such light liquid oxygens. the greenish cast of the radioactive sunlight scattered its debris across the dessicated landscape. a path cut through-- the smile of a knifestroke cutting through the belly of the wasteland lined by decrepit barbed wire and shoddy, rotten fenceposts. that's where she stood, between two fenceposts. to either side of her heavy, tired shoulders were the skeletons of animals caught in the crossfire. they danced completely still, caught between this wire and that barb-- struggling to escape even though they'd long since died, picked clean by bugs and birds and the beating heat of the offcolour sun. her feet were bleeding. she didn't know she'd left home barefoot. for miles and miles, years and years she'd been alone on that path-- or so it felt. and the skeletons never moved, never changed. they just hung, stockstill and static and unmoving even when the wind blew the dust from the trail into her exhausted blue eyes, burning them, drying them, tearing them to pieces. and after so many miles and so many years, she saw it-- a figure on the horizon. despite the shaking of her knees, she ran. when she distanced that mile she gasped for air, a fish that screamed for the comfort of waterwaterwater. p l e a s e she wailed. say something. the new figure was a woman and when she turned to face forward, her affliction was beheld. her body was criss crossed with deep trenches, stitched together with amateur twine. some of the skin that covered her body was grey, rotting on the vine while other patches seemed rosy and alive. but her face, oh her face was so beautiful-- but when she turned her head, half her face was covered in a slab of grey flesh that sagged around the eyesocket, exposing the bottom curve of her black, ruined eyeball. she backed away, they were one. and when those patches of skin began to itch, she had no choice but to scratch-- and it sloughed and it sloughed, pussed and ruptured and bled all over the dusty patch of radioactive earth she splattered with the infection of her fluids. then the
bones
dropped
down.
Locke has learned to cry in silence so no one has to know.
born and raised in asile.
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