It is amazing how complete is the delusion that beauty is goodness.
–Leo Tolstoy
I just want it. –meatlights39
In the infinite hells beyond this one exist lone chambers for lonely souls with bodies too weak to feel grass underfoot and hearts good only for impalement.
They are made to sit in separate cells on oddly comfortable park benches lacking arms while above them float the objects of their desire, usually one, the perfect One, always floating, out of reach.
Should she swoop low it wouldn’t matter, for here the poet too is armless, a half-stump unable to even signal desire.
No matter how the grounded soul pleads, screams, cries, begs or barely-in-control recites his pitiful verse, the angel only stares blankly or smiles politely, as if uncomfortably awaiting the punchline of a joke she never asked to hear.
Something in her eyes warns him this feeling of loss will only last forever.
The girl in the porno is such an angel, barely 18 with looks that knock eyeballs onto their asses. Creamy skin, everything big and curved, long hair. She is surrounded by 3 eurotrash weasels; doesn’t resist.
It’s hardly an orgy, each of them not even a third of a man.
The angel is filled three ways. She has agreed to this for unseen rewards later. The men sloppily deliver their personal endings, not one of them with the skill of a baker icing words on a cake.
She is still beautiful. A shower and one hour, you’d never know what happened, her dumb ripe body threatening to burst out of a fresh set of clothing. Your heart would plummet into a pit of desire, do anything, diamond, marriage, slave.
I am sad for the whole world, but only mine.
The real world can go to Hell, except it’s there.
There are angels everywhere. I don’t want to see them or know.
Any more.
I. WANT. MINE.
Wednesday, 16 April 2008 at 4:13 pm |
I had one of those angels fly down to me once. Crista. But she flew off again, to never be seen evermore. Is it better to have had and lost or never had at all? I still can’t answer that question.