defending a rapist

lucidity is what i'm trying to go towards. like a plane flying, searching for not empty ground to land on, but fluttering about with a dark lump inside its engineered throat, but for signs of life. there is a kind of boredom which borders on ecstacy. a kind of ecstacy which is the high that addicts seek out. going into a hundred dirty rooms, trying to penetrate a million walls, each higher than the other, legitimising the search, the lust for control. the desire to smash one's head through a mirror so that one can finally see oneself with the clarity of a lack of visuality. the ultimate flaneur watches not only the circling shadows of the wet streets at dawn, but sees his own reflection in the pure black of vomit puddles.

ravaged by compulsion and compunction, you eat your lover's eyes, but you are not transformed into a virile cat though you are lean and sinewy as the night itself. oh dorian, your whispers fill my marrows at all hours until my only wish is to suck on my own bones in a display of pure eroticism that requires neither participant nor spectator for i shall become sport itself. i hate physicality, always have, except in the extent that i can feel my own presence driven like stakes into my wrists. the most beauteous crucifixion for a girl who doesn't want to be god, she wants to be light itself, pure light matter, the universe, the ever revolving sun that flowers yearn to kiss. sex is a dead end that one batters one's head against, fighting death every single moment, trying to defy the logic of mortality by imposing the body upon it's humourless wheel. turn me, turn me over and inside out. turning, forever turning, transforming, transmorgrified, not between up and down or within/without but destroying all binary logic in the face of pure demonic limbo. the beauty of speed. the hideous black of eternal slow falling into the abyss. wait for me.

i'm there.