The sun is beating with its fiery tongue the good citizens rushing to work, the sleepy streetwalkers, the singing beggars, the kindergarten kids holding hands. The world is burning, someone is dying, someone is being born. And all the time I think of you...Flame keeper, flame keeper,I need fire, I need flame. Say my name, say my name…
In my mind there was a red velvet couch smiling at me, jealous like his women, like me. I could imagine all the limbs enfolding him on the tantalizing smooth surface of that brothel scarlet. I could smell the perfumes and the arousal of female predators on its tempting skin, it was itself a kind of inhuman woman. I saw myself on the cushions, crushed between this man and that monster sofa, sinking in the softness of the depths that swallowed red curls of school girls and tattoos of Goth chicks, and it was hungry for me, opening his octopus regions to a night swimmer, irresistibly appalling…
I left the desolate desert of my bed, with no panties under the coat, changed three planes to get to his room. My senses were intoxicated by his smell. Totally disoriented in the sweet dark air, passing my fingers through his jeans left on the floor, I could sense the salacious cherry red tongues licking his torso, raspberry nipples brushing of his chest, tantalizing apricot shaped pussy lips opening to his command, bursting melon rich shapes of female behinds rubbing on his cock, and my hands gripped my thighs in need to touch, to inhale, to bathe in this sex polluted Turkish bath crushing strawberries between my fingers, squeezing peaches, sinking my thighs in grapes, dipping my tongue in the open heart of a red orange…
Whispers of trembling lips plumped at the “J”, with a deep sigh falling on the “Oh”, a long moan inside the “N”, escaped me breathless and exposed sensing him close. He moved silently, filling me with his breath...
To touch him was being born in a state of eternal climax, dyeing a thousand deaths to feel the endlessness of life, floating naked among stars with blood from your bitten lips dripping into the open mouths of the hungry flowers and beautiful beasts, soaking the universe in the juices of your thighs, longing sweet pain of rapture, breathing fire, killing monsters with desire...
There must be a new word for what he is, a word that will make them explode in orgasms the moment it reaches the inner ear, convulse and moan in the delirium of the sound of his name slipping through their opened lips sighing in lethal pleasure of unknown want to be absorbed in his body, to enter their lungs like perfume drops in their small ecstatic existence ...
This man whose every bone and every hair I feel, whose voice hardens my nipples, whose breath in my ear makes me faint, who passes through my spine within a fraction of a second, who has these hands that make me shiver, whose power commands me, this man I can still see in the mirror taking me like a little bitch, and come, come so hard, I scream, tear down the curtains and knock down the lamp...
I close my eyes and fall, my sole purpose, to feed his hunger, my breasts swollen with life, my loins burning, my skin tightly wrapping his pulsating flesh that reaches to the very core of life inside the succulent pulp bursting in flowing warm juices...
Soft wet creature, a woman beneath his every muscle. His fingertips slide over the contours of my face. Constant expectation. He slips his hand in, fondling. The nymphs emerge through the skin. There is something far more there than legs and shameful lips, than the diabolic finger-sucking shell that he invades without slightest idea of his power...
The night cries for its maniacs, its nymphs and murderers. We go out in the pitch black air, our skins meet half way between the dirty streets of the city and the frozen slopes of the arousing deep dark forests. The naked trees surround us, silent guards of a wet nocturnal ritual...
He speaks softly pronouncing words in deep fuchsia colors of nocturnal orchids that wrap around my ankles so I can’t run from the cinnamon haze of their pollen unleashed in the middle of the winter. The sounds his words produce in the very womb of this human harp I turn into vibrate through my bones. Vanilla, sandalwood, jasmine scented syllables drip like caramel from his tongue on mine. Consonants melt on lips with a hint of orange blossoms. Escaped sighs in between breaths fill me entirely with pure scent of the decadent English rose. Mouthwatering aromas of infatuation disarm me, I bite my lip as dates and bleed dark hot honey...
He tells me about birds that make love flying. All night I am dreaming of a titanium man making love to a black bird woman. Intimidating, immaculate silver giant being worshiped in the raging storm by her delicate feathered body. In that dark and cruel paradise I scream in deepest pleasure ravished by his mind...
In this void, within this endlessness of sadness, in tears of emotional beauty, we fold our limbs, lonely and lamenting, floating, obsessed with inhaling nightingale voices, growing white peacock feathers. In this gigantic black hole, we abandon humanity and sacrifice our fragile bodies to the pleasure of the beautiful demigods inside us, our skin sparkling in the opalescent ejaculations like diamonds, like stardust...
In our grandiose future we are majestic, fully developed into powerful gods, extraterrestrial, ultra intelligent forms of beautiful sensual beings. We shall grow wings if we so wish, our minds shall create rapturous utopias. We shall explore dreams, but we shall never be perfect, nor entirely healed, we shall remain incomplete to seek, to feed on one another still...
Self portrait
