That slippery tickle running along your pelvic bone? Your thighs slapping together creating a symphony of squish?

Embrace the sensation for there's no need to flee.

Savor each drip-drip-drip.

Now start quivering and let me take a snapshot in my mind of your trembling.

Chest feels heavy, dragging you forward into a slump? Just lean into it and don't try to brace yourself against this anchor weighting you down.

This is pornography in motion.

Eyelids fluttering down slowly, world around you getting dim, all the darkness getting darker...

...just a little further... a little farther...

Ensnared, your instinct is to lash out and escape this pitfall.

There is no freedom in my world.

Rub up against a rigid surface, grimacing as your body is painted in crimson hues. Know that each jagged cut is but a brushstroke by my deft hands.

Now start your mewling, your whining and your bargaining.

Proceed now for this may be your last chance.

So as you whimper, weak and wet, I'll lap up your screams like a kitten to mother's milk.

Where there is pain, there is me.

Without me, there is NO pain.

A deepy, throaty gargle is all that is able to be ripped from you and with it, I uncover that sheer abyss from your mind, allowing you a final glimpse of a world you were never entitled to see.

My face is all you see.

I am your world, as it was then and as it is now.

I am all things, crashing inward unto itself. The father of reinvention, incarnation and glee.

Each pale dip and ebb of my face, is a cravase that consumes you.

Yet, with sweat on your brow, you still peek your little eyeballs over shoulder, hoping to catch sight of rescue.

There it is, again.

Always around, uncrushable and in my way.

That human 'spark', a daliance into lunacy.

'Hope.'

A pet peeve of mine, something that's truly grotesque. It's a cruel human fundamental and it's terribly distracting.

Don't fret, precious, I'm here.

Who are you and who am I?

Why, when at the end of the day, does it even matter?

So now the darkness creeps back in, all lights go out and that flickering spark is now mine alone, mine to play with.

Mine to douse with gasoline.

And watch your crispy flesh melt into puddles underfoot.

There's no need to flee.

For there is no escape.

~_~_~_~_~__~_~_~_~

There's a scene, a day, a drifting wind and a sequestered chill still lingering in the air.

We're in an urban setting, he said.

"An urban setting?" She said, toying with her fingernails, attached to fingers not her own. "How drab, I think! Let's go to a party!" So now they are in agreement.

Mind is now transported to a maze of laser-lights and ecstacy.

There's a pounding in our chest as speakers blare out their esoteric tunes.

A throng of hard-bodied and naive youngsters delve into their subconcious accidentally, destroying it in their idiotic attempts at 'bliss.'

Microphone is clutched close to breast by singer on stage - "Her name is Rose," He chimed in.

He's the bad man.

A very cold one.

"What are ya' drinking?" Young man says, nametag says, 'Harry.'

"Jameson Neat." A hollow response from a cloaked stranger in the shadow of the bar.

So man goes off to fetch some bourbon, children rip their minds apart by the stage and an old crow watches life, "In it's living!" she said, the voice causing hair to raise on flesh.

So now, we've come to a conclusion, that they are all lost masses of any ignorant animal you'd like to prescribe. Draw this ugly simple thing in your head and label it anything you'd like.

Just know it has a heart, some vision "...but none, really..." He said, teeth gnattering inside his skull. "... not at all."

And then this world we're immersed in, slowly fades to darkness.

The angled, knobby-kneed old crow comes away from the bar, bony hand poking in our direction.

You're pointing at us? You'd say, piss running down your leg, eyes wide.

But then the (you) becomes the (I), and we are not afraid.

I'll hold you close and calm your terror.

By flaying soul from body.

I am continent - I drift but do not dash. I am power contained in petite vessel.

I have no use for you to be as I.

So with my reaper claws, I snake away all that you were, storing it in my pouch and letting you drift in a starry-strewn nothingness.

Welcome to my show, precious.

I hope you'll stay.

It's about to get sickening.

~*~*~*~**~*~~*~*~*~*~*~*~**~~*

The Afflicted Man

Quote:As usual, its another day in the world of XWF. Or as I like to call it SWF, as in Screwjob Wrestling Federation. I have been on the receiving end of some petty bullshit, and it's about time I make someone pay for their actions.

World is black and cruel; skies overcast and flop from gray to pool, in the blink of an eye.

The 'miserable' man, is one whom has festered pity in his own soul. He's planted the seeds, nurtured the irksome brown heart and allowed these newborn fears to gestate into monsters, pecking at his very existence.

A 'shocking' man? Not this 'Shocker' of self-acclaim. He's but another peg in a very long ladder, leading from the beginning of time and stretching out into my own palm.

This is the painting that we see.

"Galleria di Demented!" The boy, all shadows and nestled in my lap, cries outward!

Indeed, the world around is out of focus, fuzzy and near-colorless.

Save for the stark golden-rimmed painting, dimply lit within a seemingly endless corridor, we find ourselves in.

As more thought is given to a meaningless man, the picture is seen to snap alive and change, as the thoughts of Scelestus proceed forward.

The heart might beat when you introduce electricity to it; but the brain starves for oxygen all the same. So while one can prop up their life and legacy with a startling sizzle - it's the 'long game', I'm interested in. For of all things, I substitute the air you breathe. I'm an air-borne sickness that has invaded the soul of every living thing.

The 'Shocker' is but another pristine example of wasted potential. He's one whom has 'hopes' for revenge - time to dash them, lovelies.

He stumbles around this world, lending credence to a legal system which no authority in the material world. It is only by decree of the bountiful and many that the few can be enslaved. He simply chugs along, choking down his fears and not questioning their maker. He wants to be processed, tampered with and spit out by a system that only exists in his mind.

He is the spirited product of a false fantasy.

So now, as we learn more, about this sac of flesh and sinew, his painting changes.

The ladder shortens, ferrying him along, closer to his(mine and their) open palm.

He's so very, very close now.

Mutant merriment in a muddled meat suit, is all he is. He hasn't the inspiration to be more then what he believes himself to be. The only way to transcend whom you are, is to eviscerate what you thought you were.

I left shreds of myself all throughout through the world.

Birth is painful.

Life is neutral.

Death is deliverance.

So now, as he has yet to jettison his antiquated belief system and rationale, his painting settles into place.

He's in Intemporaliter Scelestus's open hand.

And the 'Wicked', he did squeeze.

The ooze that was a man is on his boots.

He smiles, not cringing.

Eye sockets alight with fire.

The crow howls, worms plunging their way through it's mouth.