Ejaculate The World

Dark, to evolve in secret. Shadowed, tormented amidst neurons to test the twirl of each transient event.

Reverence for what falls from the pearled vagary. A leaden noose to ejaculate the world. Polished silence in puddles with no sex. He pays the holy fuck across the street. A pint of code dies before it manages to smear smoke on the profession of history. Welcome to the thud.

The sound of a gurgling motive from the flags above. Cigarettes swim away. Time crevices a soft heat, a number of invisible flames writing phrases on all that is distorted. A thick shadow remembers subconscious desire, then begins doggedly climbing the steps to the Red Light. The echoes hit his eardrums like a slope that fades before it can be trapped by day or night.

On the fiery rinse of wonder, a cascading rite. It seems as if these modes are all growing winged beards (which were born to seduce). Three gated joys. Two seared planets. A unity between what is hermeneutic and what is rooted in the sky. The man once known as a rebellion. He still is, but never openly, clandestinely by those who still consider him a friend. A comrade from a time when the beauty of what goes unconsummated ruled the airwaves.

An axiom. Hot with the insides of his next life, the counter's copulating texts hit him square in the face. Sapphire, and it gently makes him bleed memories out onto the street for all who cared to see.

So he star systems.

Twenty-three years now, the cellular heights gone white in his brain. When crosses and blades were still just ideas yet to be converted into matter. Where evening winds and the voluptuous outlines of female figures waited to pass over his lips.

"You have the strangest eyes, Sasha. There's nothing sacred in there anymore, is there, lad?"

Strange to hear that coming from his mother, the very first time they made love. He was the sky in phenomena, devouring the creation of whatever was repetition, her naked oxygen. There were no boundaries in those nights, just pointed, sturdy shards of ephemera from lives to come, fluids moving too quickly for what went up, what went molecular at a touch.

Morning drones every episode throught the whorls of smoke from his last cigarette, reminding him that he has never been like other men. He hangs his prosthetic breasts and cock on their recharging rack and winces to himself because he always wanted to be.

The immersion in green warmth again. She is there with him, magnificent halogen tresses that seem to cry into the horizon. A sigh flashes red as he attempts to maneuver away from the violent thrusts of hard data probing the spaces between his ribs. He is overcome with the utmost need to reach out for the grammars floating past to absolve them of all complicity, but the strange beautiful music sliding into his soft entrances distracts him long enough that they escape into the avenue of her smiling sex and are quickly forgotten. His every fantasy is squeezed, then paraphrased, in the curve of her spine as it lands gently on the aquatic crags below, where their limbs fall off and begin to scramble away. She quickly seizes his disembodied cock with her mouth, hums into it rhythmically, and ineffable waves of pleasure are seared forever into his synapses. Their communion is witnessed by a single eye that now busily records the colour of their logic as it trails away into the freedom of entwined, desiring flesh.