wow...I'm remember this joint and reading it...I can't believe that was me that penned this back in the gap. Highly interesting, i'll say that much.
Short Story #3
In my life...
I would rise...deeper, and deeper,
I would ascende...lower, and lower...
I would fly through the waters like salmon and
glide through the air like eagles...
I pictured a state of existence where...where...things didn't seem so...
blah.
His eyes opens briefly and he takes in his surroundings.
Nothing familiar, yet there is nothing foreign...he's been here before; then again he couldn't possibly know what it is to have existed here.
Here...in this place and time.
Its always been something like this...some type of archetypical dream, the antithesis of the thoughts and ideas swarming around his cranial during the day. Awake, he could begin to truly experience some measure of peace-counterfeit or not. Now, between half-sleep and partialy awake...his mind is free to take in and mold ideas and the hint of impressions to anything it can.
He remembers Sherridon.
He remembers Vincent.
He remembers himself...caught up in dual sexuality and delicious release, release from so many things, but the beginning of a deceitfully pleasurable captivity.
Sherridon, starry eyed and ebullient inside and out...always willing to love and embrace, nurture and cherish. Why in the hell did he bypass what could have been?
Vincent, firey and fine as a dark sable fur. The man wore passion and forbidden sexuality like he wore his DNA...he authored sensuality and with a flick of his well groomed eyebrow, he could send any person in convulsions of sweet sexual apexes.
Apexes that he needed, apexes that were really deeply embedded chasms of remorse and guilt, self-mutilation of the emotions and the tears of regret.
The endless struggle between carnality and spirituality...spirit and flesh...
The constant tugging and ruthless pulling that invoked bronze tears, avalanching down his face.
His face distorted in the throes of sex...the definitive sex...
sex that only Vincent could give him...Vincent possessed his body...something vaguely demonic, but too delicious to put away.
sex that poor, pure Sherridon would know nothing about, nor desire to hash out.
A fresh down pour of tears down his cheek...rememberances of Sherridon's face twisted...a wreakage of grief, revulsion, sorrow and...was it hatred? Vincent lying on top of him...a smirk on his finely chisled face. Nostalgic ghosts dancing around the old burial grounds...
He remembers in the half-light of a new morning.
Confronted with his surroundings, both familiar and foreign.
© 2005
~bloodspeaks
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