A great nother personless town

Greatness in a wedding dress. She tore through the ceremony with her heel streaks and her enchanting ballerina twirls. Fritz stayed himself in the corner, gazing and regazing, grazing and regrazing that body in his mind, his hand fondling his knee caps.

"Nobody can see me," he seemed to say to himself. "But I can see everybody."

One might pass this off as cruelty, as the cruel fate of loneliness and voyeurism, but his hand is happy. His hand knows the creases and folds of his own body. Why does he need another...the chorus seemed to say.

The chorus is filled with choir boys. The choir boys are filled with youth, and their bodies are filled with the prospective pleasures of the hand...he thought to himself.

"I'll take that over the kneecap anyday, I will!" he said. He followed the boys into the girth of the church basement, into the secluded heart of it, and what did he find?

They ate him vulturous and sultry, wet-lipped. They surrounded him, their legs dangling out of the messy circle, their heads dipped into the fray of it, bobbing like green apples in a basin of broth.

Who'll be the next fellow in the corner?

You?

Shinji choked the handle and whammied the door onto the rose bed. The wind of the impact frightened the petals off of their stems, and a flurry of red foliage blossomed furiously out around him. Yukiko grabbed his belt buckle.
"Red is the color of blood, is the color of lineage, is the color of my lips," she said coyly, undulating her jaw. Shinji let himself fall backwards on the door, and waited as the last petal perched itself on the tip of his nose. His face became red with fervor. She thrusted a straw into his belly button, held her breath, and started sucking.

This is the story of how I've come to my present pallor. I've not always been this sickly.

Please remember me...

Good to be back, or...?

Mangle me, Frank! Mangle me with the jellied princox of the sex brigade, those delectable blondies. Ahh, it's good to be back to this rambling desire muffled ear-pierce whisper roundaboutin'.

Happy Valentine's Day!

I hung my hat up on a garishly pink stubber on the wall. The hunched old mister clasped his hands and grinned patiently, and, solemnly turning around, I followed his bald head down the corridor to the chambers of his mistresses. I would describe the long passage as something the color of a fallopian tube, but I wasn't naive enough to think that my bulge intended to bear children. Simply put, I would make my way with one of the girls, and leave directly, until it...

We arrived, then. There were a dozen girls, at least, with their waists tied to slanted chickory wood slabs colored the color of sweating meat. The mister beside me furrowed his brows professionally, waiting for my choice, but to me he looked less like a conscientious business man and more akin to someone leading a liturgy, or blessing his Eucharist. All in all, the wide cell looked like a torture chamber. I could not tell what the women thought they were waiting for, naked and flailing like afflicted cushion dolls, and it occurred to me that they were struggling to be let lose.

So, naturally, I chose one in the corner, away from the hooded guards who wore pantslessly their mandatory chastity belts. The hood was something of a consolation, though the cloth their eyes pierced with obsessed concern. On the other hand, I truly felt safe under the attentive wideness of those white spheres: the chastity belt prevented them from engorging. What a truly noble job.

The hunch bid me adieu. I unbuttoned my wool overcoat gingerly, though my cumberbund whipped through the air and onto the ground before my hands found their right place around her milkies. The woman I had chosen bled from her eyes. Around the time of intended discharge, the fluids had trickled down her cheeks and stained her bared teeth. But I get ahead of myself.

I wanted her to touch my face in the beginning, but her hands, like all the products, had been cut off. The proprietor wouldn't want them to shovel out the fragile disposables of indisposable patrons. Instead, the hands jutted out of the slab from wooden sockets on either side of the woman's waist. I held on to these tightly, but her eyes and her hands were of different scarecrows. The cool perspiration of the hands didn't complement the hot secretion of the eyes. I guess it was a shabby place, incapable of simple continuity between detached body parts, I thought sarcastically.

It bothered me to the stomach, though. I could look into her eyes, but not into her hands. Yet my forehead was bathed in the same liquid wind she gripped my hands with. It seemed to crawl into and up my arms to my temples. I could not escape from either conflicting sensation. After an embarrassing interlude of loud moaning that finally spurred on the ejaculation, I walked back to the mouthed gate.

I had intended on reprimanding my pious guide, but I felt nauseous as I looked over his shoulder into the maw of the tunnel leading back to the entrance. When I finally caught his eye, I found that he didn't mind letting his hopelessly lecherous teeth drip from under his lips in a satisfied grin after I had gone and paid him. He didn't mind looking down at me from his impish height either.

We had finally waddled our way back to the doors leading outside. I caught my cap, made for the knob, and shoved my way into the crowded extension of the streets. A surge of relief left my eyes, but the image of the woman didn't allow it to materialize into tears. I just covered my mouth, as was my habit to do when trying to prevent beauty from escaping my gaped lips, and went home to my family, whom I could look into for hours. I took out my pocket mirror, brushed it with my wet handkerchief, and watched as my face melted off the portrait. I smiled and narrowly escaped ugliness.

Knocking on my own door, I surprised the wife while childrening was nowhere to be found. She was scared. In a frenzy, I grabbed her palm like it was a long sought-after, miraculously discovered memento that I was afraid of losing ever again, and she tore the skin off my face like wet clay with the nails of her remaining hand.

見ていないだろう、とりさん。会いたくても、無理だよね。御仕舞いの気がするね。寝る。

そして、死ぬ。

The places, oh the places

Would you rather go to sleep in the cool prairie, in the supple earth under the grass, where the ants scale the mountain--where the ants choose your hobbling goosebumps over the trenches? Or would you choose the house attic, where the dryness of the air sucks away your tears before they form and you have only to sit, clasping your knees against your chest, resting your head, shutting your eyes, falling far? There is nothing in the wind, so stop crying. Nothing in your eye. There's nothing in you. Those tears come from nothing.

You sniffle? You're done, I hope.

I can't cry any longer, said the koala forlornly. Why won't it rain?

何もしなければいい

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