Hate filled baby has no abstract feelings or mental glitches; only incestuous betrayals of lust. The dust swept tangerine carpets suffuse whisky spills and sediments of decaying ash. Light bulb stationary, incandescent over a room of one’s own. Perpetuity of a sweat stained mattress trickles languorously as the shoddy white semen decays its lingering perfume, discharged from the pattered, flaccid penis of Abel’s underbelly. The halogen light bulb transcends boundaries limited by conceptual traits of space as it sneaks into crevices, between wooden floors and sparks an incognito idea amassed in the blast furnace of the membrane. “She’s visiting me in two minutes.” A couple’s waiting time belies an indemnity that the pulse of the heart beats faster at the close of approach. Candy coated frame, saccharine at first sight but irremediably tasteful at second: a pink cherry that loses its outer coat of varnish, as painted cottages drying in the autumn sun. Herring bow fishnet trousers displaced on the mahogany floor bounces back a ray of invisible light into photons of potentiated perception. Abel stumbles across to get ready for the opening. A heavy heart damaged by years of futile self-preservation, furtive silliness and audacious playfulness; that rotting feeling of premeditated anguish crusted by indecision and perseverance sheltered by vain smatterings of filial joy. Why does the balloon of love flat slowly towards an open ceiling that seems to be blocking everything else? “My mind is a cavernous sewer sucking dead leaves fallen from blaspheming trees.” The door is ajar kindling lost hopes and fettered dreams from pursuing romantic caresses that discard perception as a blind man’s stumbling block. Too near and the didact loses diaphanous traces of smouldering rapture; too far and the sentimental pornographer distils a saturated set of precepts to glorify the mundane aspects to a monochrome picture. The wind howls rapturously outside. Serendipity strikes upon the shoulder blade of a dreaming android. Lost in the cosmopolitan fog of polythene wrapped parallel universes. Prolix a cantankerous upholstery sunk in vanity and impregnable self-doubt; Abel restlessly looks to his twitching wrist for a comfort of bliss. Silent eternity lays languorous in a cherry picked white orchid. Nymphs laugh torturously in persuasion over an incoming calamity: atrocity exhibition caricatured without semblance. Knees shrink as wilting poppies without sunlight. A shadow, dark, charming, climbs past the walls and projects fate in a second. Frizzy hair styled straight sits on the perch of her two shoulders as the head swims inside. The reversal of play-acting is confined madness. Touch lips or get wet without saying a prejudged word.
The imperturbable death and renaissance of Orpheus attaches him to the transparent mirror that acts as a filter between reality and perception. Men that die for a woman lead tragic lives built on indisposition, fantasy and awakenings. Quilt of a fever severs interaction between a brazen, prowling leopard guarding a cage and a newt mammal fraught with anxiety, smattering holistically in indecision. Her hips flex rotund like pious leaves turning towards the celestial realms of solar paradise. They seem scared though, those lust ridden waves that bruise the merry heart with pain. Her hair turns sangfroid, rattling the steepest highways of impressionable dereliction as egregious boats hijack swamps of cereal spun pictograms shot using rotoscope. The animation tints blobs of incandescent memories affixed without a premise, banal as a crowing grey pigeon. Thin, rangy legs stride into the corduroy striped ceilings; porcelain china emits an invisible vibration unseen to the naked eye. She wears a yellow jumper, luminous as cross-dressing buffalos visiting a canary. Two moths have mute sex on the floor that’s scattered with potassium-soiled hair, lost from the scalp in dry indignation and starved innocence. The unrequited couple close the red door by pushing a hand as a torque in a rotary action manifested by breaking temporal forms. The door shuts. Doesn’t a narrative necessitate a rangy, glorified plot to put readers into a trance of catharsis, actuated by interminable despair, guided by voluntary illness. The hailstorm gushes in indolent precipitation funnelled as a gastronomic imbecile to the harmonious sound of springs working in a mattress. A stare of sloth succumbs to excite each other’s attention. Waiting, waiting. Romantic malady exits as the contact of physical bodies ceases the mucus green deposits in the nasal cavities of their faces. Dialectic written in third person removes maya of appearance: a maxim that love is suffering starts the conversation lit up by tangerine waves.
Picture perfect kiss melts the snow of the frozen tongue. Abel’s arms meet her figurative laxative, positioned in the mid-rift clasping the vagina. Simmering caravans mount a disk stored electronically within reach of both their arms. She mumbles as a sordid tumble dryer looped on the same cycle. That’s how it seems to Abel anyway. The wind whips against the corner of the confined cabinet, belched sonorously without a measure of decibels. The couple have transported along a magic bus to arrive stark naked, autistic by ear and numb by feeling. The pain recedes back to a hidden fortress governed illegitimacy by intractable fear. The gates of Eden’s whisper conduce sonatas served as love’s obfuscating sway.
Turmeric whisks of balsamic trouble stir the anaesthetic ache buried under the leer of hatchets. She bends her disjointed back furtively forward, sensing an opportunity. ‘An opportunity of what?’ desires Abel in his sullen, macabre state of readdressing a chemical imperfection. He pulls his orange and grey striped socks up in a remedial jocular action to signify an offence of battle. He looks into her dense, vivacious yes. Carnal eyes. Both of their hearts coalesce to beat slightly faster, laughter chained to cover the anxious apprehension. She wants him to come nearer. Her lips quiver, as the wet tongue spreads open like an arch forming a bridge for a train. Abel slides his hand over the lap of her thighs, caressing them virginally as he open his thirsty yet satiated lips. A kiss.
“I’m dead but I’m alive.” Abel winces.
“I love you in misery.” Female returns.
Sentient recollections of imprudent erections weave an undercurrent that majestically disintegrates into a proliferating release of hormones. Regret acts as shame’s guardian overseeing the vapid space that tilts globular like manic depression. The sky shines in symmetry shimmering effervescent discs of intangible feelings untouched by humanity’s core. They feel like walking in the park every day, sunned by the magenta horizons of tractable pasts. Those binoculars append an unruly microscope sucking the ugliness tortured to further perfection. Secrets, squirms and foretold lies intone easels of humdrum desire. Automatic body signals recede inside the cavernous armpits of our mistakes. Hypnotic stare cradles impalpable disintegration of salacious wanting, hunting nothing but the heart. The beloved lady cleans her translucent window; spraying fiery brimstones of taut, tease releases through aerosol figs. Grounded beneath the shadowy skies, the tumescent cottage exasperates in unhealthy despair. Leery, suspicious, disembodied trust. Dazed and confused, upset and amused. Curtain rails don’t hold particles of dust; they disperse in isolation unknowing of imminence. Locke’s sensory perception promulgates twisted sinews cadavered as linnets flapping empty wings. Travelling in a sea of love, an inflatable balloon trips up amidst dark grey clouds precipitating hallow deceptions. Their faces cradle heat, eyes dilate outwards, spines conflate sturdy, mouths wet in anticipation, legs crossed in simulation and hearts weeping for adoration.
“The expressions that I give to you cherish autumn plums as ladyfinger’s kind.”
“Most impressionable tolerance you have for prudent distaste.”
“Man loves woman as object like stars shed dust in space.”
“Girl loves boy cleansing doubt, spreading misfortune and organised madness.”
“Patient diagnosed as terminally ill. They say it’s inconclusive.”
“Sudden deaths, incurable as a cancer, lick pale wounds hatched beneath graves.”
“Mordant obituary for slave driven hate.”
“Life is a history of past mistakes that seem forgotten but are dreamt again.”
Gallows humour swings their temperaments seditiously as two pikes turn jack-knife strife upside down. Asses warm the area of sitting with knees bent, head erect and feet touching the floor. Can this love struck, maladroit illness avoid inveterate guises of obsession? The two are too closely linked together like octopus’ tentacles and gooey slime. He binds Kafka, Woolf, Joyce, Dostoevsky and Dylan Thomas to produce orange-screened magic. Monet impresses the brushstroke of an angel black in the death of a song. Their eyes angelically translate shame. Paws stuck to their cadaverous laps, rangy legs stiffen as anxious distractions twist buttocks, hips curtail maudlin showers of wet. Butterflies, equidistant from the sky and earth, swoon temporally to allegories pertaining to no context. An imperceptible dichotomy envelops a dilemma. Listerine glistens in the background as her straight dark brown hair forms a cutting to a jocular, transmigratory scene. The issue between the two appears to be a dream. Mistaken reality, obsessed with self-immolation, developing an acute psychosis dreading of death, or love. Is there a possibility, within Merleau-Ponty’s phenomenology, that Wittgenstein’s paradigm of language games desists opposition to a liberal minority?
Ruby taut nipples ripple in the shallow end of dispossession and irretrievable delight for Abel. He sits pensively, suggesting an informed awareness of her craven malady. Rape shadows the vulnerability of prostitution. Effortless sadistic vanity ejaculated in a heartbeat’s pleasure as the shrivelling of the penis recedes in territorial regret. Love, that being of Eros and copulation, is ultimately selfish. The foreplay, teasing, taunting and caressing obliquely pencil motiveless scenes of transient harmony; they touch hands realising the withdrawal of each other’s presence. Fingers shake minutely and sparsely. Recollections of their dreams seem unobtrusively distorted by fragmented planes that have drifted beneath the seabed, only for an octopus to entangle seaweed green hidden under a pliable stone. Heat rises in the dense air. Staccato lines engineered to controlled perfection dwindle dwellings of dwarfs. Back to the nipples. Chest lays bare a fear tattooed to white melatonin. Unravel a double helix strand using a zeppelin’s accuracy and find unsolvable questions that keep coming back to bite. Her face, opal as her open lips, permeates secrets of unrecovered repression trapped in infancy. They cease to look into each other’s eyes again; miasmic tundra wants to shipwreck impudence between the thighs. These ringing sounds drive paranoia through society’s kettle that boils until it starts over again without preconditioned thought. Would the narration of premise by an unreliable writer create an aesthetic scope that looks inwards into the skies and outwards into human bodies?
Immutable discs swerve iridescently in an inveterate demonstration of the inviolable horizon that contains nothing. The ballad of big nothing rings echoes inside their fatal heads. Fear has no description within the metabolic tract of our gigantic aprons. The clothing underneath signifies ironic distension waiting to receive an invitation.
Transmutable orange paradigm clears one ring of trespassed trepidation. Enfolding self-reference raises blood to the knees and shakes to the head. Finnegans wake with no apostrophe; Abel feels his testicles oscillate next to his inflating penis. Such brown, ocean tinted, ketchup splattered eyes can’t scream at the impervious past. Apricot sunset was time reset five hours ago with no sunrise beckoning a dream. Synchronicity when their eyes meet again wets such an intense appetite that their erogenous zones remember memories past. Salvation is an act of apprehension. Wisdom seekers seek celibacy but build guilt in solitude’s island craving an interpersonal unity that anthropological prescience can’t control. Free-floating jazz saxophone sporadically surfs sonorous waves listened as symbols to sounds transmuted by language.
“My face is implacable. Your belly aches.”
“Heart’s palpitating faster, unclear to smouldering formations lost in a burrow by a wind farm.”
“We embody certain feelings linked to our past that characterise our relationship and make sanity out of irrevocable cathartic love.”
“Maniacal perspiration segmented as fragments drenched across frivolous tar, centipedes, mushrooms and opulent lemongrass dipped in clementine flowers.”
Such abstract, unconscious communication was sought to mend two broken hearts into one unified love. Tales of nomadic expedition- Robinson Crusoe, Candide or Optimism, Eugene Onegin- cellophane wrapped as crispy duck porcelain white misty mountain.
Experimental tumbler glasses widen the frame to perception’s shiny silver gaze. Abel’s eyes meet carnal desire imprinted with sangfroid, becoming woman’s eyes. An eternal play collapses in on itself to transgress archetypes containing caricatures of societal biases and limitations. A miasma brings forth subconscious potential manifested in illimitable material space, unfelt by skin. As dawn slowly breaks through the darkness of horizon, Abel joins his hands with his lover, absentminded, contemplating insanity, death and suicide whilst living life as a reflection of the collective unconscious.
Hands fumble to the key of the play button: Say Yes sounds clear. Their bodies erect draw naked urges of residual lust scanned as red grapes succulently provide a balm of trust. The pain of isolation is a distant memory drowned with sea salt crisps; platypus screens salamander’s next move for private advantage or insecurity of fear. Words shout out in the open. He closes his eyes: “She’s still around.” He opens his beady, translucent eyes: “She’s still around.” A heavenly dream. We shared an eternal dream.
The End