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No, seriously
I actually put effort into this. I know...I don't beleive it either. I was drunk when I wrote it, so it was a drunken effort, but an effort nonetheless. It actually began as a chapter in a novel, but it clearly has nothing to do with that novel, and it clearly isn't prose. I don't know where any of this came from. The collective unconscious? The dream sea? Hmmm..... It's rough. There might be some naughty language.
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Let the record also reflect that I
(the I that am I, not the O, and certainly not the IO,
of which we will never henceforth speak)
am only half of the whole which is--
for the ensuing scene--
responsible.
The other half, you ask?
Need you?
No.
But, for the negligent, we shall expound:
The other half is a beast
not in the least concerned with human yearnings.
A beast of another dimension, other planes,
not to mention other yearnings,
earning—dimensionally—the right to pursue what pleasures it will.
Stalking the will to lay with a warm body—
“lay” her until she confuses day for night—
until her plight is rubbed raw by forgetting’s paws—
until she begs for the dregs of your own existence,
never to know the all of her own.
Until: she is you, and drained of ire.
Until, like fire, the words fall out of her open mouth,
her tongue wagging against draught of words,
against hurt,
against eons sworn to tear her heart out,
once torn, hoisted high
for the hungry to form a ring around,
and to observe and adore,
and of which to dream, it seems, to have one day of their own,
a home in which to hide.
The bitch hid her home in plain view of the fray,
fraught with the flames of a non-existent day—
tomorrow, for all those keeping score—
and rising in the smoke, we, as one
will borrow the center of all that is sacred,
taken to our nests, our breasts,
holy finality—
finally—
found.
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...ARE BELONG TO US!
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