The Grasp ends..
My neck's stove in, broke upon it's own joint; line-deformed, in a world of macro falling order. Wrapped around it's own voice, no longer guttural and primal. Instead, it seeps along a hidden seam; as one falls in and folds under . Oh these veins that bled from life. Guards and sentries!. Beckons and mentions! Those holy orders that fight and light the way towards the secret shore of an eternal sea; and the the right to find movement within the dark again. MB
The masseuse
“How dare you touch me” She had not said this to the coal black face; Straight like an ailment; globes heavy with absent stagnation that stared and bulged within it's own strangeness..A patriarch of a closed order- he righteously stiffened in pious self belief. A sneer of a body, in the blue and the black; but still far removed from things. At first she had tried to remain closed, to avoid his accents; rhythmic and regular for the counting; but the hands had come in a slow conduct, that had finally struck; tall and thrifty, and mean with the giving. And so she had sat, overspent and long along the body, straining under skin; fleeing the touching and the feeling. But in the end, it was of no use- he had pressed all things in- in a self- obliterating, queer-adulterating payload; unique to his own particular, discombobulating self blend. He had not earned what he could not deliver. And so she was stuck with the Blasphemy of the thing. MB
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