Now, do you think orgies of questions will reveal the enigmatic evil laying beneath my passion? Earlier, at an art gallery full of disgraceful and disgusting figures, I simulated a laugh. It was a drunken monologue aimed at the confused crowd cheering for a high ending. A shooting site for those who, although having met my charm and sensuality, carried a deep hatred towards me. Perhaps my talent or my position in society made them all act like puppets on strings. Ironically, I was the master behind all of them plastic figures. Directing my own hatred back to its provenance. However, an obscure creature approached me or was it an illusion? The woman who named the Sun, as she called herself. My sweet fireball. She was a beauty you couldn’t lay eyes upon, a romantic mistake created to be put in my path. A well-designed plan, which surprisingly managed to surface the meek and gentle details I hid behind a serious face. In spite of the introduction to my own sensitivity, my ego became a crime scene painted with the eyes I began to despise. There were angry words slipping through liquid remorse, as she kept disturbing my patience while showcasing her amusement. Beauty began to be all that she was lacking. Suddenly, my passion got portrayed as ”macabre and bizarre” and nothing revolts me more than selfish lexeme. Lucky for my pessimistic abomination , a cavalier could never turn down the woman who created daylight. But then again, who is more qualified of destroying cosmic humor if not me?
I saw a reflection of innocence in the blue waves that took me by force. Stellar personality, a solid statement written on a goddess’ invisible nature. It was hard to rupture a response off her mouth, so I proceeded kissing the unsaid horrors of her mind. Hesitant echos, hesitant sights. A wet landslide touched my skin in darkness. Her eyes turned green for tonight, green as the poison that paralyzed our visions on each other. However, our life spawn is short, we can only have each other until the dusk’s disappearance. For when the dawn arrives, death is merely a cliche and well, who am I to carry out the nightfall and hide the morning remorse of a sinner? I’m the definition of a night assassin, shameless in the act of love and shameless in unconscious seduction.
What is tragedy for a comedian? A joke that produces no laughter? A child abused by depression? A mask merely for avoidance?
What is tragedy for a comedian? A flower dead by drought? A culture immune to offense? No irony in any circumstance?
What is tragedy for a comedian? Himself. He’s a tattoo made with a camera, fictitious. The term ”comedian” could be attributed to any of us, and yet only those who choose to wear the name tags can abduct a gloomy crowd. For there isn’t any place for people drowning by the hands of oxygen. For there isn’t any place for freedom in a prison. We are our own confinement.
What is hope for a prisoner? A sky projection of his dreams? The sunlight melting his trap? Falling into handicap?
What is hope for a prisoner? A book written with infinity? Embracing death in a glance? An unusual Gothic ritual dance?
What is hope for a prisoner? Us. He’s the kerosene to our fury, we are his end of the tunnel light. Aren’t we all prisoners, a laughing stock for the privileged? We are the gloomy crowd gathered by the tragic jukebox this world is playing. Stealing the air from each other’s lungs, a tug-of-war on a global scale. So is it really the hands of the oxygen trying to drown our thoughts? Is it our in-born limitations allowing us to be our own victims? We are criminals. We are comedians. What are you?
Death, an incurable miracle. A fortunate event for a troubled soul.
I appreciated the man he was. Slow in motion, yet sharp in thoughts. His words would always come to rescue, his words would always spell my name. I remember those days. The altitude was 4 and rising, we were above the clouds. He always feared me gazing down from his cockpit filled with a jungle of flowers. I waved to the ants that were my parents and quickly made a run for the chess table awaiting. He was upset with the phone, sometimes even flamed it, before returning to his nephew that cheated his way into defeat. His biggest disappointment came with my legs growing long. We placed a bet when I was five, by twenty he didn’t make it. I began ignoring him plenty before, I thought that I grew up, yet here I stand with a beat up face, wishing that I was still young. I’ll be twenty in half a year with the bet still on the table, and even though I want to win I think I’ll be unable. I’ll let you win one last time.
She’s wearing clouds of fire tonight. Snow White’s curse in her hands, wings of desire under her feet. Her hair is falling from the blood lust, it’s her usual cleanse. There’s a tune in the way she sings though, sounds like a silent roar. A female equivalent of my subconscious. She blames me for the blunders of life. At times it’s a frost-bound hammer,at times it’s a killer’s lullaby. Silenzio. The darkness is shadowed by the light. The morning is complete. She arrived. Her body creates mists of death, it lures in the young pirate starving for treasure. Her bosom being gold, her words pouring like rum. Blindly he follows the oiled skin through the broken terrain, yet he was born on sea and still swam on dirt. He’s unsatisfied, in need for more. It’s the tune again, repeating the horrors of the ocean. Inexperienced and foolish. Her body melts into poisonous mud and he mistaken’s it for natural beauty. He wants to forget the memories already lost, he’s in search for new ones that’ll never exist. Nephila‘s weawing the galaxy’s edge. Her dress turns into tears of lightning, it’s ripping itself apart. It’s not kind on the eye. Hate. Anger. Colors of indifference for a frame hosting a cobweb. He left himself open for the horrors of the mating season. It turns out, the lap dancer was just another spider patrolling the dusty neighborhood of my cobwebs. She wore golden words on her lips, silk underwear covering the not so confidential stories underneath, her profile could not hide the prodigy she was. She never lost a war. Not until now. Exterminated.
There’s a silent satisfaction behind her hungry sight tonight. She’s not dressed to love me, nor to hate me. The eyes are getting heavier, she’s a mystery. Red dress to impress me, I confront her aspect. It’s the end of my survey of her body tonight. Curtains red. Burned down. You could nearly say it’s the entrance of the night assassin, you could nearly try to kill me soft. High heels. Black. Burned up blood. Fire. You are sitting in the corner with your coat piled high, lacy underwear and naked body, it’s the sweet spot, you could be my baby. Begging for my un-threatened life is what got you high on a daily basis. Loose lingerie. Pin-pointed act. Cigarettes are merely for the artistic impression. A feature that rose on your seduction. There’s a request I might regret, collarbone-smoke in my hands, painting words on the back of your lips. Swallowed. Devoured. Inhaled. Absorbed. I’m a man of many identities, a nobody in reality. A static sound in the TV. A static sound inside your gut. A necessity of the world, an expandable figure. The death of the artist creates the anthem of life. I will forever resurrect the horrors of your love. Nonexistent. Superficial. Hollow.