Grave

· ADRIAN VINO ·

October 9, 2017

What atrocities had this aching angel of a fierce fall, turned to and tried and finally held fast all which she thought was good? The upside-down flames of red crashed against her pale and speckled shoulders, and she bowed with a curve and she hissed quite unhinged. It was a dance the way so maddeningly macabre her bare feet gyrated amid the wet grass under a missing moon, cutting large orange and yellow leaves to pieces. The night breeze beckoned and beckoned until the stars faded into an oblivious farewell. Her gown, half wet, clung to her breasts and wrapped between her thighs and nestled neatly in her cunt. An ivory temple–this maiden, with her pallid pillars turning into small hands with thin fingers did point into the infinite void–lush and languid the l’appel du vide. I had lost my place upon the planet as I did what shouldn’t and watched her unwelcomed from afar…mouth agape and tears streaming, cutting as they raced, my hands were two stuttering spiders searching for a hidden home. My feet complained of all the hours and all the days and weeks and years, I had stood waiting with supplication for a saint to save me, that would not come. Of sinners and saints, I know nothing of, for self-preservation is the highest law. And If he arrives and tempts you say, “yes” if yes is what you need to say. And if she appears pleasantly and queer, say, “no” if no is what you want to play. Show me the perfect lover and I’ll show you the grave.

 

 

October 11, 2017

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