Epilogue

The purblind, moribound Neo,
hung insouciantly, listless,
almost in a crucified
way. There was glorious triumph.
but... lament... it was over.

Time fades into oblivion,
as I count the myraid stars, (that)
embellish the velvet skies;
drawing circles that have no,
and will never ever end.

Dawn comes, my Scherzo's been played,
and my burning stars be burnt.
My play has ended its run,
the stage has something novel,
and nobler to begin with.

58 chapters bounded,
by a chthonic realm below.
Then, there comes a new chapter,
that is spared of Cerebus'
voluble and fetid tounge...

It begins now.
So...what is installed for a arrogant lil' poet like me?
A beat. A bit. Harder.
-Grins-


cuRRent...jer
Inspiration...Sadness...and whatever life takes
Be back with December entries ;)

  ¶ 1:09 am

  Vanilla

She gazed into the glass while her hands carressed the side of it, somehow not noticing that saccharine cream trickling across the side of her lips. It was a facet, that triggered that passion within, and the memories faded. She licked slowly at the vanilla, beneath the misty, pristine fumes. It smelled too nice. And she continued to brush her hands against the phallic and tall glass- that cold feeling of that matter, and the warmth of the content- that curdling vanilla, while forming an inscrutable scrawl on her otherwise, tranquil forehead.

Ensconced on the couch, she crawled into a fetal, provocative position, then spreaded her legs towards a more comfortable area. It was almost in a vulgar, ineffable fashion that she adjusted her dress eagerly with her empty hand, perhaps to affirm her own sexuality. No. She corrected herself. It was her salacity. It was her promiscuousity that she was endeavouring to assert. To a certain extent, she was as proud of it as a child procuring elusively good grades. She emanated a smile, a sly one. It was silly, that the hymen is no more but a lost child. Yet, she couldn't be too bothered about it. It was impossibly easy to learn. It was deceptively facile to forget. The memories faded and the hopes lost, suffused her being...

And she realised it to be too gratifying, as she rubbed her ownself with her slender fingers. She gritted her teeth and snapped her jaw wide open and suddenly shut with feline ferocity; giving herself to see a subversion of the tamed self she was. She rubbed harder, and harder, until the glass of hot Vanilla threathened to spill as she jerked foward, uttering a strange, albeit familliar sound. It was that noise people would perpetually desire too much to hear even a tinge of. It was creeping into her, that heavy burden and her face twisted in a gamut of emotions she could not construe. Nobody could. For that moment, she came almost unhinged. It was ribald. However, a simple woman like her could never understand that word per se. It was just too big for her to know. Just too big. But she will learn to take it in anyway. She placed the glass on top of her abdomen.

Pushing her hair back, she was suddenly surprised vis-a-vis her own devices, her own quasi-demented disportment. She peered at the lounging latex on her lap and noticed the whiteness of it all. "Irony," she thought, "the irony of it all..." She picked the defenesless condom up and defenestrated it. Together with the memories faded, and the passion within lost, into the moonless vespertine skies, about to call on a senseless dawn.

If she had recovered that freedom of love and the hopes lost, she might have enjoyed the process of it all. But she just couldn't. She assured herself, "if only..." She swallowed a gulp of bittersweet saliva. Maybe, she was tempted to enjoy this warped pleasure, but her woes wouldn't let her. She couldn't let herself crumble and succumb to love and hope, for there was too much Vanilla out there to take in, just for herself. She picked up the glass and worshipped it as she fondled with her belly with the other hand she could find, impregnanted with the hearty trouble.

She could only continue to pretend her trade is a happy one and she could only continue tumbling into that stultifying, tedious trance, "Come! Merchant come!", a perenial mantra, chanted 7 nights of a Sisyphean week while leaning on that wall of a rusty musty site where only whoring beasts and curious flaneurs dare to enter. She contrives a giggle. And the same tall glass of Vanilla reflected that action...

She attacked that Vanilla again.

cuRRent...jer

Thanks Bernie, for the inspiration.


  ¶ 1:42 pm