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Menial Bones, Dig Here
by sean kemble
In the off, awful, awfulness of here, lives the it boy of its. In the rock the blood retains heat. The throb, the swelling begets the undertow via the wet arteries gripping my mineralized muscles with mercury. Cursed and trapped unto the earth. A fossil for archaeologists and beastly diggers of tomorrow. The wicked, the evil that tempted me set me snugly deep. The face was childlike and she smells like cinnamon. Ticklish and giggly. A tonic of safety, of ever afters and faith. Ebullient girl, pallor of cream. A windy voice, chilly and clean. Perfect like Christmas.
Suspended here between two histories. Do not bemoan my fate. Perhaps I deserve my encasement. My trapped consciousness forever locked. The loins are demon driven and adore the earth. The semen has a mind. Stony solitude thwarts in off key dissonance, like unformed melodies tittering between thoughts. Wistful whispers from outside places. Within, without, above, below, beyond, the perimeter. In mercurial shapes, evolving colors. This former foppish physique I rode is locked in the lime, the peat bog earth. The cravings have washed into the sand and taken my tasteful lineage. I hear rain, loud horses without hooves, shaking my bunker with ferocity. The pitter patter on crunchy leaves. The veil separates, my cell vibrates. No absolution comes. A mawkish many headed dragon guards the doors.
Her skin was fresh, frosty and the synthesis of heat. The lurid ballerina, nimble and lithe. A contortionistic tongue, well practiced and shifty. Corrupted and black. Infected by her tears. The tales of beatings by father. His fingers. An orphan at ten. A gifted wastrel. The web was sticky with sugars. Seeping in pores like godly goo, a glue refuge to sanctify my she-wolf. The juices gushed.
The aching hostility persists, the cells, the tissues swelter with vehemence. My salted hands, the limbs are impliable, imploding in stiff shivers. The game, stalemate, or is it my move. My god, Ophelia, loosen this sepulchral embrace. Answer me. You necromantic bitch. My romantic fix. The remedy. Release and defile me once again!
This was written as a companion to another short story I wrote. The rhythm is important. You see how it flows in prose, a bit of rhyme, in a unique, almost choppy way. I wanted it to seem timeless in style and place. Like old stories by Poe and others. Melodramatic and bold. Kind of over written. I will post its partner story, Necro-Ophelia, next time. Showing Ophelia's voice. Both are to be read together. A point/counter-point perspective from the dead.
The story is of a sexy witch who seduces a handsome, dorian gray-like young man. And then curses him into the state of consciousness he finds himself in here. Later, Ophelia becoming trapped by her own karmic rebuttal.
Copyright (c) 2003 Sean Kemble All Rights Reserved. |
