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sung
« on: September 23, 2016, 07:43:12 pm »
A fence protecting the riches of grass, grown from emerald to the kind of gold animals eat. There are no horses in the city. Or unicorns, yet. Asphalt patiently waits from the other side of the diamond pattern wire, like the eyes of soldiers staring at rebels through their shields. Tonight we’re lamp lit, street variety, though the bulb is ashamed to have the street’s name and is hanging on a metal arm far above the clad ground. On that ground, a chair. Gravel is nowhere to be seen, gravel is mean. Gravel is in the air like a threat can be in the air. He sits. Deer legs in cotton rips, bloody edges. Cow jacket and split open wolf brow. Breathing like his lungs are the only organs that aren’t hurt. Breathing like there is gravel in the air.

Suddenly a child again, watching his sister crying – same wolf brow – while delivering the flat of a book to the rear of man, naked deer legs. The air has yellow glitter, like sulfur can hang in the air. He’s in mother’s lap. The book makes human music on father, and he calls into the sock and that turns into a spray around the silver tape. Mother explains why father is happy but crying. Sister is unhappy but crying. A glass, did you know, falls slowly when you watch it. There aren’t many glasses to prove it, in the sulfur home. The sulfur home has wheels, and stands between the road and expanses of grass.

Chalk white. Here was the future with its clean. He was running out from his work of a professional organ farmer, latches on his ribs underneath the shirt. He was compatible to everyone in this year. Speaks to others with equally expensive complexions. The walls were ceramic but sprayed to look like brick. This neighborhood was always like that. Design of grit, for wit. Petrol and fumes, ethereals, not real. There was a tall machine, building tall, by one of the walls. His card made the diodes wink and whistle. Rumbles in the machine, and thuds. It shook and produced a cylinder. She was contorted, inside, packaged, legs weaved and palms pressed. Pretty face and too gaunt.

He breathes out the gravel and falls off the chair, fitting cut-through knees into cotton holes onto the street. All day, when the cow was clean and the brow was whole, he’s been feeling ill. Yesterday, when he’d worn felt, he remember Someone who thought he was a beautiful as he felt. A smile for her, and kiss for him. Sweaty, culinary, until she was also raw. And when she left there were pearls on her welted cheek and a message in print on her skin, his teeth. So he sits on the ground underneath shameful lamp light and breathes in the gravel.

Chalk white. He lifted the cylinder and turned it, examining her in her liquid. Her eyes were open so he could see their color. He was happy with his purchase and put her down. A twist of the lid and she spilled out with the clear thick of whatever mother’s brew had kept-up her suspension. She slept on the washed sidewalk, pelted by night and neon. And then she woke with a breath that sucked in her life water. Then she coughed and grew her hair from barren scalp. Lashes too, until they curled and threaded in to touch her lids. She looked up at him. Endowed swan with customization options shining on her arms and legs and stomach and neck. The limbs read of colors, stats and charged insults. Red, 32, wench. She sat on her heels, hands in her default eggshell lap, head back so he could read Mother, Sister, Nurse, Secretary, Dog, Dead But Still Warm, on her throat in vibrating blue. He scrolled on her until there was Asunder so he could pinch the skin. She shook and transformed.

He screams in the gravel air. Thick, pink tears from eyes that blink over black, black. He remembers her teeth-print skin and clapping her until she’s satisfied and mortified. Through the hair that stick to the sweat on his forehead ivory shoots out. A coiling peak. At least, there are no horses in the city, still.

VenomousEve

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Re: sung
« Reply #1 on: September 24, 2016, 03:16:29 am »

There was dust in the air. Dust on her lashes. Smoke shades like wind and the sea, foam crest and milky skin. Rust lips and wide hips that stretch across ivory and yellow bird bones. A canvas, carved smile in red and dripping, she is firm on the hilt of that blade; deadlock on the eyes in the mirror. Blue in the sky, the universe, and irises. No room, just a mirror, because everything is white.

Was white or will be white. In a field of lavender, no scar, she was a pale stain in a naked wild. Pretty because she was alone and soft in all the weeds. The sky threaded violet and violent, cloudy rush. Inhalations of a storm. Out of her microcosm, at the edge of the lavender sea that bled into golden grass there was a too tall visitor, still and dark and billowing. An antler crown and white fingers.


Plucked blossom hung from bony horns. Wrapped in silks like an offering she reached for him, gasping, enlightened. She was blank for his red, painted. “You’re so beautiful.” Blue eyes, black mask. Antlers like the man in the corner. She could have been an answered prayer. Permanence on her skin. Arching backs and love affairs.


Pretty things cry when they are told, vibrato through their bones. Dark shapes, too tall, no face, stag head hated those deer limbs. He tried to pry them off and offered a museum. A mausoleum. So many other pretty girls and boys; he spat a tooth to the ground. Lanky limbs long and lithe were hard to escape and he reached like he was hungry. He would tell her it was her fault because she liked it when he lied. Lashes to the heart, lashes to her back.


She slips her fingers across the slick birthing bright from the smile slung across her hips, pushing so it hurts and drawing carmine across her lips and tongue. The stag horns are broken, shadow looming behind her and long-nailed digits around her throat. She is drunk on the wrong sort of ecstasy, crying, and gasps. Break a swear, break a bone. She will be buried in pieces, wrapped in red sheer, by white rabbits. “You’re so beautiful.”

She threw hair like moonlight from the window, over a shoulder to show the crescent moon stitches from his teeth. Laughter and horror, dark man in the corner with black silk rope. She smelled like mother, sounded like sister, looked like sin. There was lavender tied into the horn on her mask; there was a jagged spear where the other antler had been. Touched his brow and touched his lips and told him about her nightmares.

There will be a girl that can be anything, bright lights and fate on her throat. Her hair is spider’s web, catching neon. She is white like sugar and heroin with an inviting mouth.

Unraveling, like a fine knife at the skin of a red apple. She is loaded, like a weapon for dreaming in a soldier’s hands. There is metal underneath, wrapped in vines carrying sanguine fuel. The skin binds taught, safe assurance. She stares up at him, blue eyes. Nobody will know what you do or don’t. Pay extra and the damage is covered. She stands and smiles in the alleyway. Naked in a dirty city because he only asked for skin. Her hair is a black frame for a gas mask. There's rust in the air and it's viral.

She reaches for the latches on his chest. Do you come apart too? He can't see the way her lips part, curious kinship. She doesn't have a heart. There are a set of cylinders filling and flowing like tides. She'll show him if he asks.



 

Verse

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Re: sung
« Reply #2 on: September 24, 2016, 07:05:47 pm »
Antler fiend. Fingers like an unfolding spider to claim the lavender treasure like a leash lacing through her miss match bone tiara.
He pulls like so
to let her know
his nightmares, too.
Closer and her spear takes refuge in the valley between his shoudler and his chest. Punishes like this, with pieces of himself. Red first, babbling, and then blue, for truth of lineage. Takes her out and back and shaves permiation from her revealed jaw with the blade of his tongue. Black eyes and clipping white lids.

Comes the storm and plunges the field into another shade. If the water is clear when it hits, it is red when it drips. Serene antlers are washed and bled at the same time. And he loves her for lifetimes, palm above her mask to keep the rain away. And he pushes her, as lovers do, in the end. Man with black rope recieves her, binds her. And Antler Fiend charges.

Bleeding crown barrelign toward silky wraps. Jagged prongs fracture into miniscule shavings when he touches her. The rest of him, all lengths and shadows, collide too, into her. Turns into flowerheads, flowerlimbs, flowerbed. As lovers do. And the wind dresses her in him.




Comes apart indeed. Her fingers say the right things, and latches flick with silver clairty. They are meant for machines to open, so the speed of unlock punishes her curious fingertips. With hybris of late night in his eyes, he looks from her to the little door sliding wide. Highest grade of bones inside, frothy marrow, and slick, deep, bulbous artifacts, ripe soon.

The garbage and silver lids are provided, a block away. Pleasure part of the city, in a world where dirt is packaged and sold. Only waste you see is the waste you pay for. The She Machine is tossed toward the painted-on brick and he tries her hair in two directions. It's not cruel if he puts in enough credits. His face to her mask, and he licks the muzzle of the filter. Hands around her sides now, thumbs pressing at her ribbs. Asunder, wasn't she? And with metal clicks, the ribs break in a rythm he likes. "You're so beautiful." he says, as though the filter is a microphone, before one hand dances over her chest, and the vibrant font returns on her skin. He writes Deep Cut and stands back to see, closing the door over his insides, finally. He'll write scores of bad things before he's numb and done.



So they are his sins, they have to be, stretching from the rooms of his breath to converge in his throat and fan out into his face only to trickle up and solidify out his forehead. Roots in his brain. He remembers her. When she says stop, not because he's rocking her hard, and ruining the wall with her spine, but because he's reaching for her purse with his other hand. I'll love you forever, this night. All your little things will be forgiven.

And then here are your vagabond belongings, and here is a door, I'll open it for you.

She's nothing but undone, sent off. He's nothing but proud. Underneath the light that would not be street's, though, he's calling her back, but she can't hear him, onto another redemption for being beautiful. He stands, and spins, hands out to claw at his own faults. A scream from human lips that comes from an increasingly equine heart. He looks around with black eyes and sees laces on skin, laced skin and studded limbs. His design. Chambers of badness he never cleaned. Revolver.

He runs from the fence and finds a labrynth of alleys. He topples cans and rips bags as he tries to sick out all the magic that is ruining his apathy toward other's love. When the horn touches walls it makes sparkles, colorful, out of place in the gravel night. Somebody is making him a pictureque joke. He can barely breathe with rainbow muck rolling down his sharp jaw. A black and white contemporary poet sillouette undone by something morbidly whimsical.

I didn't say I'm sorry, kissing fresh, biting flesh. It is all your fault for being beautiful in dismay.

VenomousEve

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Re: sung
« Reply #3 on: September 25, 2016, 11:11:13 pm »
She is perfect under the dirt, finger flowers and rabbit shit. Beetles in her mouth, worms in her throat. Planted in a neat row, lavender snaps through the earth and gasps for fresh breath. The rain bends those tender stems. A cross in the field, beneath a willow tree, wears the mask and its spear. Maybe it means he loved her most, dark stag beneath the moon with unicorn blood on his flat teeth.

Her spine is still shaking in the earth, hungry vertebra for a spiral horn. Her shadows still moan for his ghost. Antlered tower will carve away his own ears to stop her music.


She can bleed, but not like him. Too many organs in the one and none in the other, she is gears and circuit boards in the prettiest kind of flesh. Her displays race ones and zeros. This is supposed to hurt. She smiles and it’s almost believable.


Machinations whir beneath the city sounds and she opens like his hinges. No latches. Red line smile under her ribs and this one laughs. Her blood floats, droplets up as rain comes down. She gasps and gurgles, looks at him with wet glass eyes like an accusation and politely asks for more.

It was sunny and golden when the children played in the yard. Twin sisters with flaxen curls and ribbons blue as the sky. Clasped hands and shared secrets as they wriggled their bare toes in the grass. A pretty porcelain doll between them, a third playmate, with big brown eyes and long dark hair. The girls took turn rocking the doll, cradling like young mothers, giggling and fondling the fine fabric of the miniature dress. One sister reached for her turn and her twin twirled away, laughing. A game of chase, bright at first and more urgent then. A shove, and the doll flew. Shattered face on a gravel road. Big fat tears and scraped knees left the plaything abandoned.

An owl flies at dusk.

Mechanical doll in the big black mask has a glow like a lantern inside her open chest. Her whines are muffled by the filter but her titanium ribs kiss the night air. Cut the dark cut the silence. Sparks and static. She writhes and it’s a dance for his credits. Program perfect. Flowers blossom.

The was a room with a thousand bodies, grey light and plastic lungs. Silicone lips over harvested teeth. Men in lab coats filed through; touched the girls with greedy fingers. Test the programs, let them run; they had such lifelike eyelashes to peer through. Invaded for science and a quality check. It’s okay if it’s all an illusion. There is no code for violation. The girls sighed, metal bones and test tube skin. They were made for you, beautiful in dismay.       

She stands beneath the willow tree, swaying branches and swaying braids. Bright blue eyes like the sky and all her crimson sheer is white. Mask in her hands, black, a white branching horn on her brow. The other is snapped. Still wears his teeth marks and all the seams but Antler Fiend can't hear anymore.


Verse

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Re: sung
« Reply #4 on: September 26, 2016, 07:42:59 pm »
He tries to take her in with kingly absence. Alley, his court. But there is such dedication in her imitations, shining through black mask. Wants to set his mark, wants to reach an inner she’s not designed with. All vile hearts toward the same goal. Does all her users feel like he? Her kingdom built in credits. And he counts the sparks with trained accuracy. Something with this model, something with this make. The sound bite she presses through the filter. And the intrigue of her shapes. Skin plates like Strazza loved silicone. His riches, bought with his own organs, are plenty, but the factory price – he likes the civilian model, sometimes – should not be so engaging.

But if he asks her to stop with bitter tongue she will.

What does it mean to gain life? Indulge in the usual thoughts of mayhem onto her, and satisfaction in him. Abandon to a series of comforting evils toward something that feels evil not, but processes it perfectly. It must be in her text, the way she’s written. Ones and nothings until he’s fooled. With his nail, he draws the name of an illness across her forehead, so the show will continue, so she’ll know to burn from the inside and cough her organs out. Madness in a mind that can reboot. She makes him feel little boy things though he meant to enjoy her as though she was barely there.


In the corners, in the currently vacant vermin highways, the weeds ask if he is hungry. Teal treats in gravel night. A gentle thought of teethmarks on skin, and a taste on his tongue. But she is gone. There is a smitten someone that touched his shoulder, as he’s bent over, knees in the dirt. He still has the composition of a beautiful man, partially. Someone is frightened to run away when he turns with the weapon on his head and only black for eyes. He returns to gnawing at rouge tufts of grass breaking asphalt for a better life. When he sits up to chew, fingers continuing the search in the angle between brick and street, he wears a beard of granulates.

Man that makes them for dismay goes to the playground at night. No white coat. And the shards of the doll cuts through the leather of his sole. If there is a smile it is eaten by the night between lamp posts. He collects the doll and claims it from the twins. They have forgotten it anyway. He collects until all his fingers, lively-hood fingers, bleed. Red shards in cut-up palms as he hurries home. Work all his life, and now he’s inspired, cooking porcelain and referencing the expression he recreates with things already in their database. Other expressions on his screens, gasp of elation, sigh of malady, wide mouth and crossed eyes of death-like rapture. He will make them in enamel and bring them closer to the user.

He has broken the terms of agreement, holding her wrist as he drags her beyond the geographic area she’s allowed to go. Rented, not bought, after all. If he is debited, he does not care. He pulls her in for a lover’s embrace, ill advised. She’s sick in his arms because he told her to. Back at his work, where he rents a room from the company that buys pieces of him. The doors welcome him. Over-time is dedication. What do you want to grow today, user sixty-seven? Single digit pride for all his compatibilities.

Not the first time she’d been laid on a metal bed, surely. It makes him irate. When he kisses her there is no risk of infection, even if she is feverish, terminal. A glass cabinet opens and light runs through essential liquids to showcase all the pretty things he’s farmed from himself. Working lungs, beating heart, spine with pine-needle nerves. He turns and frowns. What an expensive turn of events.


He can’t pull more weed out of the city floor. His fingers are hard. Every print is gone, only nail hard pads are left and the digits are growing stiff. They clack against the walls and cluck against the street. He wipes his tears with his forearm and sings a complaint into the night, shrill enough to reach through all their universes, in all their times.

His feels the songs through the vibrating shards of the doll being read by the hands of the scanner.

His instruments register a small quake. It is melodic. She on the metal bed might hear it.

VenomousEve

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Re: sung
« Reply #5 on: October 11, 2016, 02:59:33 am »
She claws at her throat and her skin is kind enough to bleed. Her gasps through the filter as she coughs are hard notes to the rise and fall of her half-split chest. The dish-grown skin is flush with a sickness it was trained to pretend. Her metal chassis dissipates a little more heat.

The woman in the field turns and the willow falls dance. A cry across the cosmos and she begins to weep. She drops her shroud and runs into the field of wheat. Her lavender sea is burnt away. In gold she sprints and then tumbles and falls, rolling nymph in her nakedness and she has no white knight nor steed to take her away. Jagged horn rising from her split brow, which bleeds silver and white, glows and throbs to her heart beat.

On the metal table, she gasps when the mask is torn away. Silver-white dripping from the corner of her chrome lips. Her eyes roll and she whimpers and moans. Writhes on the cold slab like dying is seduction. It still hurts before her memory is wiped. She doesn’t know how many times she’s died before. A string of red lights down her forearm flash beneath her skin. She’s out of range. He will be charged by the hour to the full price of her unit. Don’t return her if she’s malfunctioning. Backhanded purchase. No warranty.

Her face is shattering like a


Doll. Pretty boy. Pretty dress. Does he look like your son when he’s dressed like your daughter? His joints still make mechanical sounds when he reaches toward the expressions on the screen and looks at the man with a question. “Should I make that face?” Brown curls tease the nape of his slender neck. He has a serial number; custom. But no name. On his forehead is a tiny nub. An ivory tooth. A fang on his brow.

The twins are hanging on metal crosses. Bad things happen to girls who don’t play nice.



Verse

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Re: sung
« Reply #6 on: October 11, 2016, 07:19:56 pm »
What a pretty thing. All his fortunes for this year, pulsing and drinking and traveling out into the body. She opens. He told her systems it was maintenance. The coding was a nightmare. He danced around her basic personality routines, tried not to look at her that way. And now a heart beats, and lungs lift. One of her eyes have his cornea. He laughs with frustration when he reached back and the stockade of limbs have been locked. Somebody rich did some midnight shopping. The glass wont shatter when he tackles it, leaving his blood and her coolant on the transparent shield.

The boy’s animation is dear to him. He lets the little almost-life look at the screen while he puts proteins into a soup, and starts the process of making dead things into something that could elicit life, like a magnet can raise iron dust. He touched the boy’s forehead, fascinated by the growth. "If you want." If you decide. It is not a barren thing, the fang, and it cuts. Blood down the bridge of the doll nose. His blood. Looks lovely coupled with the brown curls. The boy plays an invisible piano with one stray hand. Idiosyncrasy that should have been extinct in a race that is manufactured. So much love, though reflected, in glass eyes. The maker of other things continues to cook the soup with commands to the screen. "You will be looking for those twins in everything" he'd seen them in the boy's compressed memories. Nobody would know the boy would punish them everytime he met them. Even a machine needs childhood trauma.

Her world lifts the shavings that he became. Little winds that squeeze themselves into tendrils. He is not alive. This is not this kind of miracle. But a cloud that used to be Antler Fiend follows on her tumble, and fills its belly with the ash from the lavender fire. He has patterns from his fracture, the punishment for directing his crown at her. He reaches a hand for her. The world doesn’t know he was not the kind to ask for forgiveness. The world even makes a heart for him, keeping a bubble of sot, moving it as though it is beating, before his chest is laced shut.

And her chest is laced shut. And the slab turns her standing. An arm that used to be hers writes gray letters on her stomach, but the words Come Alive are highlighted in rejecting red after their conception. He smiles at his mistake, eyes set deep now, and he lifts his other hand, human, to deliver the same cursive message. The letters become blue this time. He steps back to listen to the fluid symphony of his organs in her, and the arm he’s given her. The arm he’s claimed is slowly pumping coolant into him through the socket in his shoulder. His veins are deeply blue, spreading, but he smiles.