Remember if you want to post a story, article, essay or artwork here on Frequently Felt just write me at mchristianzobop@gmail.com.
City Night
By
Nudemuse
By
Nudemuse
Sharp fingernails pressed against rough stubbled skin, two bodies pressing trying to leave their impression in the brick wall, desperation, sweat, the smells hover in the alley must give way to one, fuck. Their fuck permeates every surface, the wet hiss of breath fogs around the orange light of a single lone post at the end of the alley.
Everything around in the drunk sleepy city stills, heaves around them with the rhythm of meat slapping meat, traffic moves in molasses time, flowing with the length of a thrust, the twist of a hip. Street noise muted, everything straining to hear the choked whimpering. Whimpering gives way to feral snarled epithets as only lovers can hurl. Yes, yes, yes even the trash blowing along a sidewalk blocks away seems to whisper that word, yes, yes, yes. Bodies in rooms in cheap flops surrounding the epicenter of fuck, not just fuck, fucking, the apotheosis of fuck. Le petit mort? No, le mal mort, the apocalypse of orgasm.
This fuck destroy language, this fuck demolishes civilizations, time and place. It is the return to the Cunctipotent, the elemental. Yes, yes yes.
Everything hears it, feels it. That throb between your shifting legs, the city is pitching, pulsating flesh ready, ready for the destruction of the Universe. The Big Bang that will create worlds within the flashes of incandescent light shattering the inside of their eyelids.
These lovers.
These lovers who wail finally, bodies and souls thrown into the muzzy light of the sleaze they have managed to push back with the exhalation of joy. The ascendancy of all that is holy, wet and full.
Soft lips trembling against soft lips, laughter as the world swells and returns, tries to triumph over these concupiscent lovers. Time has had no triumph over them, the Earthy wet that seeps between their thighs. The stink that rises from febrile, blasphemous skin. Time and civilization gives way to the lovers, until again they meet.
Everything around in the drunk sleepy city stills, heaves around them with the rhythm of meat slapping meat, traffic moves in molasses time, flowing with the length of a thrust, the twist of a hip. Street noise muted, everything straining to hear the choked whimpering. Whimpering gives way to feral snarled epithets as only lovers can hurl. Yes, yes, yes even the trash blowing along a sidewalk blocks away seems to whisper that word, yes, yes, yes. Bodies in rooms in cheap flops surrounding the epicenter of fuck, not just fuck, fucking, the apotheosis of fuck. Le petit mort? No, le mal mort, the apocalypse of orgasm.
This fuck destroy language, this fuck demolishes civilizations, time and place. It is the return to the Cunctipotent, the elemental. Yes, yes yes.
Everything hears it, feels it. That throb between your shifting legs, the city is pitching, pulsating flesh ready, ready for the destruction of the Universe. The Big Bang that will create worlds within the flashes of incandescent light shattering the inside of their eyelids.
These lovers.
These lovers who wail finally, bodies and souls thrown into the muzzy light of the sleaze they have managed to push back with the exhalation of joy. The ascendancy of all that is holy, wet and full.
Soft lips trembling against soft lips, laughter as the world swells and returns, tries to triumph over these concupiscent lovers. Time has had no triumph over them, the Earthy wet that seeps between their thighs. The stink that rises from febrile, blasphemous skin. Time and civilization gives way to the lovers, until again they meet.
0 comments:
Post a Comment