Red Skeleton Hordes

Bring it on, red skeleton hordes. With your clattering crimson melodies. I hear you. Amongst the trees, behind me. Rasping wheeze cackles from unholy places. Carrying heavy hammers, facefixers of iron and a cat-o-nine tails. Sending snake spit skyward. I offer bare flesh for your dentigerous maws.

Looking downwards. Toes curled over precipice. The deep ocean below. Shadows hunger. Horizon beckons. Stars a glimmer. Galaxies fuck in the belly of the ever present tempting whore of the unknown. I'm hers.

Waterfalls.

The blossoming miscreant ascends from the depths of the mire. Child birth and sun death. Two cold stars, bound in beauty, offering endless nebula. She rises. Forcing cuckoo throat painsong from the wettest mouth. Words of wonder, splashing over milk teeth. A little medusa tongue seduction. She breathes. The willing flesh vessel rises. Waterfalls. Time slows. A moments perfection. She closes her eyes.

A ripping foray of ugly entrails scream through the meat and bone. Needle stab trickery. The dull ache of blood loss unfurls. A sad pain spreads forth. The pleads of a pseudo Lycanthrope, splash like vomit. Slapping gore into the Earth. Stains on sheets. Ultimate disappointment. Everything falls. She still breathes.

Pillar.

At first, complete darkness is all that there is. No sound but the wind. A howl with no teeth nor purpose. Hinting that a world does indeed still exist, the song would offer any witness reasurrance. Soon a light appears, giving form to it's surroundings. Painted into place, turbulant heavy clouds twist in the bony grasp of the sky fingers. Tearing slivers through to the moon. Sending blue lasers dancing over the carnage. Curtains part and music plays. A teetering, breathing mass of gore, quivers and squeeks on the stage. Some aspects of the ghastly composition in meat are recognisable as mammalian and hairless. Baby pink skin folds and pustular eye socket glory holes abloom. Animated in a spasmodic ballet, scatter marked with muted mouthes jabbering silent tourettic poetry. Craving the stormy void's return. A confused and desperate air surrounds the tragic creature. Tears mix with shit at it's base while pretty wet lips offer sanctuary to trapdoor spider tongues. Poised in their holes, encircled in yellow vapor. It knows not what it is, or what it should do. It is at once the glorious by-product of all that indulges and the glutinous flesh angel ascended. It exists to enrapture then disappoint. To dangle the whispering lure and seduce the naive, in endless circles through eternity.

When you return.

Outside in the Sunshine.
It's cold, without your touch.
Shivers shatter low in my stomach.
Pining for your eyes, with too many hunger tears aborted.
Over and over.
Yoyo back to me, I'll breathe you in.
Through every pore, into every cell.
Deep within.
Inside the inside of the tiniest idea of me.
I'll hold you.
With a thousand embracing arms.
Protecting you from the dark. Matters.
A tiny turquoise moth adored.
Light in my hands.
Among paper stars.
Forever.

Still breathing.

Despite it's blatant burden I've been doing as much as possible in this body:
This year so far, I've been to Paris, I've seen David Lynch's paintings, complete with teeny tiny flies in oily mausoleums, I've been to Amsterdam, I've experienced the concert of a lifetime; Sleepytime Gorilla Museum live in an intimate Jazz venue. I've ascended at 10ft a second in a 77000 cubic foot air balloon. I've had the best birthday ever. With my perfect girl. I'm having a good year, but what was painfully snug, now breaks all the tiniest bones of me. Pressure leads to frustration leads to low ceiling claustrophobia. I'm gonna fucking explode if I don't sort my shit out soon.

Words.

All the words I know of
are lightyears away from my tongue
to use old words, all used before
would steal from what has begun.

Excuses excuses...

I've been too damn happy. Cheek aching moon cat smiles abound. Silver teeth and green eyes. Slowly growing more and more familiar with the jealousy of the healthy biped amputee fetishist. Enying the empty and broken. Hopskipjumping through the Summer, I was loved, cherished, complimented and embraced. I still am. I'm the luckiest person in the world. I'm the happiest I've ever been! That's my problem. What with love and countless friends, a great home, good health and a rosier future than ever before, I seem to have cleared up all the mouldy bad karma. Not merely swept under the carpet, but wiped clean off the face of the Earth. How can I complain? I do feel fortunate. However this all left me far too comfortable.
Perpetual comfort isn't normal. We're beasts, just wrapped in paper money, secretly looking for something to cry about. Painting pain and doubt into everything we see. We fool ourselves into thinking that a warm existence is the way it should be. It isn't. We're supposed to be fighting for survival. It's in our blood. Our health is waining as we need it less. Gluttony, the by-product of comfort. Cancer, HIV, liver damage and depression, the results of having too much fun at the expense of our bodies. The pestilent lepers of the free world. Dancing spasmadically until our rotten fingers fly off and slide down the front of our underpriced, undervalued, Ikea wardrobes. Tree corpse in the corner. Those who know they're lacking the lifespark, chase a pathetic endorphine tickle can play sports or even worse, run on a machine in an overpriced gym. But the "entertainment" industry, passive as well as interactive, thrives on our need for gore. The terror tabloids, scream at us every morning! There's that word again. Vicarious. But we're not really in there. Despite eyes lit up like alley lanterns. In the blood dreams we censor, we're elbow deep in the steaming, stinking purple organs of every whimpring victim.
I miss it so... I haven't, nor will ever have enough of that red energy inside for the visceral puzzle work, I crave and once cherished.
I think that's why it happened again. It felt new. She felt like the first. Although, that's 11 now. It's taken 11, for me to start throwing hints out into the etha. IT WAS ME. This is fiction. IT WAS ME!