Vanished Faces

(a performance of occult infections)

Published by Writing Knights Press

 

 

Room 15: One Shocking Moment for a Crucifixion Pin-up

 

pull a tortuous dance

pull her legs. aquiver

wet with crazy. pleasure device.

 

slightly akimbo for easy access

wet with crazy

 

neon holes black halo of pubic hair

a soliloquy by the reflecting pool

stings the garden black

 

creep. creep. my pretty pretty.

as faces missing eyes are missing their sins

 

focus on this new attraction for our

gilded age

a conclusion slowly but never formed

drawn in circles but she can never be satisfied.

 

her smile is the cause of her fever

her toys are

the virus that they desire to eradicate

 

swatted down

face to floor

they laugh laugh at

a curved body on a glistening

cross attempting to keep the heart intact

 

she follows the

music to avoid listening to the clacking of

bones.

 

lying here,

she’s been hooked before.

behind every door, she could see the wives

and their crippled spouses, erect as they collapse.

 

a curved body on a glistening

cross attempted to keep the heart inside.

 

the skull of aluminum. pussy of flesh.

it went into a woman’s hands for safekeeping.

 

the sex inside your body – a means to escape.

slash the tires. an experience of a response.

she began walking and grabbed its juice.

 

the secretary's skirt barely covered her ass,

the luminescent cheeks peeped out every few steps

she stopped and sat down to watch television

the screen secreted several droplets of blood

which made her wet

this action demanded that she lean forward to flick them off

the screen with her trembling tongue

stations changed as she moaned and erupted

 

to be against the government

to be against the structure

to observe a body starting to tense

to hear continued lapping of a sensuously

drugged stranger caressing her in this manner

 

 

 

Room 9: An Addiction Model Perpetuated by Adulterous Wives

 

a feminine storyteller 

flung herself off the balcony

her death caused by guilt

her tales resulted in many victims

her tongue was burning

her eyes rolled back

she spoke of subjective morals as her lips quivered

black slivers of sky moved in and siphoned her form

into the asteroids

 

a husband of fear hides

she might be leaving

and watching

and crying

as she slavishly fucked ones earlier

where she had been designed to recapture the

increasingly numerous

visions of lust

just a couple of inches off center

 

(barely humans)

her essence throbs.

distilled. then cooked down further.

travel up the mainline. to the center. push.

 

she sits in judgment 

for their crimes

stifling 4 walls of victims

as her fingers came in contact with

a heart she detected the anesthesia.

 

no. no. no. no. addiction to meat:

have you ever seen anything more beautiful?

we were obliterated by pathology

but we were just embarrassed

 

(motivational interviewing)

 

a desire for sanctity was her motive

they existed to conform to her norms of sexual fantasies

 

she smiled thinking

she smiled thinking

 

she smiled thinking

of the benefits of having a bipolar disorder

that caresses a blood-lust.

 

cravings require a substance

her hand moved faster as always

when she prayed

and the shadow of the crucifix

held all in its sway

she knows compulsions are behaviors

 

(reducing the sex drive in phantom loved ones)

 

as the leopard crept away her brain cursed and

her hand squeezed her cancerous heart

 

some more dolls, some more obliteration

 

clinging to walks long gone

i’ll dust the creature’s skin

 

her leather words caused the love trophies to explode

calming other body parts

 

a dissolute carnival.

 

tall and burnt by glass kisses and neon gas

clothed in a black and white gauze dress,

so short above the knee

drastically tempting

a jukebox walk in a vinyl style

 

she steps over a full length sliced up mirror

positioned on the floor to illuminate her cunt

hollow changing clanging touches

an emanation from her lips

 

she gazes down at 3 faces captured behind the glass

a slow slight crouching

a penal pleasure

she bends just enough to see

her own face superimposed over the prisoners

 

a shiver as a brilliant stream of burning piss

morphs into a gushing climax

silent cascading rushes rushes

reflexes of her prisms coat the glass

 

she views herself with embarrassment

over collapsed bodies that sing a single low note

she forgot why she had entered the room

but delighted in the look of

her matted pubic hair wet with juice and pee

 

momentarily distracted by animals darting

from behind the corners

her left hand shakes and drops a hypo

a carnival. a golden shower

a peak of despair.

 

she carried inside herself the more aggressive heart

from life to life for the next time,

into the three unfinished films of the accident

at the mansion in the hills

 

that's entertainment

 

 

 

Room 11: Analgesic Sex Cycle 

 

she remembered how she

adored the squeak of the bare mattress springs

as they were imprinted on her lovers' backs

stations of the cross

episodes

2,4,10

betrayal, denial and death

 

"fuck no, people would pay to see me surrounded

by a group of seven eyes

dripping out of my pussy"

she quit shuddering,

"their bodies for my pleasure"

larger than the significance

of the phenomenon

we were smeared with a vast amount

in a cozy bedroom but with the filthy arms of our tormentor.

his lips recognized himself

and walked toward me

pretending to seek change,

while in and out

the cross about her neck took her back to a womb

of laughter and scars

 

she rolled on her possession of love

she smiled thinking

it was all a footnote. isolating her senses.

 

her maternal instincts kicked

the substance out

she was panting and tense

the hurting author had deliberately

chosen her touch

 

stopped sobbing began sobbing

 

her face was marked by where she was in pain

looked out the window into the courtyard

 

she was ambushed

by the black silk panties burning in the tree

tremors of excitement

arousal will come through in the footage

 

she felt a blush climbing

she felt the presence of a woman who

had become a posing prosthesis

a middle of the night collector

 

a videotaped part of a body reflection

how many people in the photos?

 

slash the tires on go!

you squeeze the fingers of

 

another person deep down inside

don't know whether it’s obvious

that this one liked skulls,

 

its scream would have been deafening

we will never know since we are all

born from the copulation of death masks

and the jukebox’s aura

 

she smiled as she squeezed the petals

 

 

 

Room 12: Erotic Plaything of a Morbid Housewife

 

again pulling the creeping urgency of

meat. bitter taste.

buy it just this once

a song of solitude

a vision of excess

 

everything was going to be so perfect

so perfect. not at home as usual

just on the street

friction

fiction under her skin

a portrait of culture

in a plastic minute

 

love was decided on a coastline of razors

she's still burning hanging on the street

white powder suspension in a beat-up tainted glass hypo

everywhere you go, you’ll know.

 

an orgy of varied colors beckons.

the streets die fitfully

her lust is stretched from lamp to lamp

from dirty to sublime

a rhythm of unnatural desires forgotten

by gangs of the merciless crucified

near the railway stations. sweet taste

 

“merci. de rien”

 

an orgasm of varied colors caused by

the events previously described

sharper than knives on the sky’s edge

 

baptized by the warmth of her inner thighs

police skin halo beams on a

greased woman machine

white wash bleeding white covers the street

 

her tongue spasms are coiled and

she bathes herself with her own saliva born of fantasies

 

an ambiguous relationship

lasting over an unclean smell

filmmaking took place here

a creative pursuit carved into flesh

 

dark instruments were embedded deep 

sexually attracted to her body

and then a person could view or download

things more important than her work.

as she was pimping him,

but again she was resting

or whatever happened

i knew that she opened his eyes to look again

at a purely negative position

inevitable suddenly she became completely isolated

and decomposition reigned

automatically creating pseudo subjects of culture

his wife had such movements occasionally then diminished,

grunt laboriously over

and over

a line a small stage and she came to you,

this is Mrs…

 

 

 

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Vanished Faces

here