.
a) From the past, darkly...
I'm not a demented, indeed! Maybe it could be called an exacerbation of faculties of perception; I have a strange method to mince the structure of the things, according to its nature.
Maybe it's just some feminine intuition that remained in me, for unknown reasons...
The story that I settle in albo here, it's just that: a story. Or not even that.
Once upon a time, a child. He laught, played and believed that the world it was a luminous camp full of sparks of angel.
Afterwards, when he grew older, he started seeing things objectively. But he was refutation and scorn.
Then he was wrath and rebellion.
His life never meant a thing.
...As the time went running slowly in its dumb-golden meanders, he became a man of fire black and grey, with odd thoughts stirred inside his chest.
He was a vertigo of uncomfortable light, or maybe the nausea of a bad night. He became a man.
A man full of natural handicaps.
The sweet charity, that lies, de rerum natura I mean, never really understood this...
His fathers didn't recognise him, either his mother.
Nobody really never, ever knew.
Sometimes the destiny works in weird places, unexpected ways. De rerum natura.
What's the flesh of God made of?
This man was selfish and feeble, and he suffered with it, but he couldn't change. De rerum natura.
This broken man with the soul in the clouds never hated,but he loved many people.
...When the lack of love became laceration measured in moonlight, he learnt to love. The death.
b) The reality
I have to apologise specifically about this boredom: my incompetence is evident, and this abortion couldn't being called, not even, a story. But I feel the compulsion to go ahead with this insignificant script. I do appeal to your largesse in generosity and comprehensive kindness in these, my last moments...
Apparently she wears a transparent dress, though she's nightclad.Her smile is black, and her eyes are...
Her hair it excels in beauty to any woman's hair.
She pretends to be a little maid, but she's the oldest harlot. She's a woman, French or Indian.
Her hips and breast are a surd invitation to unknown delights... but doesn't play any music as some Portuguese said...rather dances.
She dances well, and loves all the lascive things: dancing with amiable elasticity...I would say suppleness...and she sings as well.
...Sings like a glassy dolphin in a sea of blood. Angled priestess: her amatory devices never end because...she's love!
The terminal love.
The greatest love; our diaphanous, last, perpetual...
Perpetual what?
For example she's a bitch: prostitute with wings of centaur, and teeth like the timeless universal nonsense: teeth like your home.
She's not feminist, because she's the woman for antonomasia: the death.
Her hands caress in cold dedication the brow of the fallen one in those lucid nights when they see their life in its raw objectivity.
And about me: who could reproach me this love? Who in the world?
Who in the stupid, meaningless world?
She's built all in lies, but remains.
Only the lies remain.
I've seen her whispering strange words of opaque lingua mortis. Words of dark wisdom in my ears.
My tired ears.
Her feet ae colder than her white thighs, my delight. Her frozen arms are as beautiful as her turgent breast of snow. Her musculous abdomen, harder than the Lucifer's decrees just invites me to discharge my sexual passion on it...
But her long fingers of femme fatale are a finglefangle of universes and she's horrisonous: sexual joy, ardent; my love, my only one. The death.
Like a crítica I have to say just that her inferm fatuity got me fed up: horrible, stupid bitch; I love you the same: fuck you! Go to Hell!
She gave the sombre opulence of the south of Hell its red stars at night.
The red stars of the nights of the south of Hell.
Her icy, ample back is the tender consolation of the derelict ones; and it's throne, ensign and crown of the kingdom of Hades, the arrogant vicious.
Miserable evil miserable...
In those days of blue sky, I see her in the tracks, railways, high buildings, and high hopes...
And in the children eyes because...she only talk to strangers...
c) In the white of the day
She'll come definitely for me one white day soon.
I'll be waiting for her, smoking, sat down like a blind dog of the desert waiting for the rains of August.
Sat down on the sidewalk, barefoot.
I will let myself go with her, and we both together will create a God of love, only for us.
.
