Come Mensal Lism

She slithers abreast of him, blissfully inserts her warm-felt thighs in between his, and bats her eyes. Without her eyeglasses, her vision is a wreck. But with her so close to his chest, she sees into his saccharine soul. She mauls him only in her mind, at first.

He stares at her for a coupled minute and then strokes her neck-length hair. She doesn't lean to kiss and neither does he, at first. She sees his eyes via her peripheral sight. Albeit the Gaussian blurriness and the bare breathing of she and him, they tardily gaped.

Into each other's periphery, they gaped into one's souls.

Erratum: Desideratum

What an ungrateful week-ender: stomach-knotting and heart-rotting. Her bronze skin metamorphosing into a scarred porcelain of pallid tint. Her blood streaming into an anaemic black hole. Most importantly, her brain denaturing into inter-neurotic glitches.

Sophistication was her description. Illusion is her delusion. Wankers, wankers: she likes the innumerable times this was cussed on those teenage telly screens. She also likes the visible fingerprints on her dust-covered jalousies. She eats crackers of dolour and wafers of toil. And then she vomits inside-out, regurgitates her insides out.

She needs the sun.
She needs to succumb.
She needs her planetarium.
She needs a sanitarium.

What's that smell?

La Belle Ferronnière

His birthname coincides with his artistic flair of portraying faces by ink. He makes use of the blank indices of old, moldy elementary books. But he didn't use fancy chalk pastels or flashy charcoal pencils; only the cheapest ballpoints of red and blue, rather. He replicates pictures of leopards and owls, sometimes of Elvis and even Medusa. He does them magically; he does them to pass time.

And yes, time eventually passed. Intricate lines of wrinkles, even with indelible ink, are washed away as years, decades even, flutter by. The man, who was named after da Vinci, left his original family for committing an original sin. And now his soul, still on search, is aching to time-travel to his first love's most intimate arms. And, yes, retrograding through time is plausible. But, no, not in real life.

The man's hands became old with oddly green veins palpable through his seaming skin. He recalls his sons and daughters and their sons and daughters and how he conceals his love for them. He is dying, not physiologically but, mentally to embrace them one after another. His whole heart, including his mind and soul, is twinging to go back to her one true wife.

To finish his unfinished business, that is to draw his nymph's face -
with her eyes ever so captivating like that once she said "I do."

Medium Format Scripts

Her twin lens reflex camera dangles around her nape. Two rolls of expired films bulge on her left-hand breast pocket, each with 36 exposures waiting to be bashed under the scorching sun. Her palms are perspiring and her ruby-painted nail beds glisten even from afar. She is wearing her polka-dotted cat-shaped spectacles today. But her vision, even in a marvellous midday, remains incoherent.

She shoots some stray felines from her hip and the purring vertebrates freak her by their howling glare. She scours for familiar strangers along the city's ill-bred alleyways. Illegal vendors, sidewalk sweepers, homeless toddlers, and even jaywalkers. Shutter-wise, she immortalizes stolen scenes from those strangers' lives. Not that they didn't notice, but they didn't care. She advances the sprockets as she prances along the boulevard of tainted peace.

She takes a photograph of a tree with only twigs as its leaves and she says, "He'll like this." She turns up to the vivid azure skies and adores the shapely curves of the cumulus clouds. She traces an image of a Japanese geisha, its face as stainless as the mackerel sky. She turns down to her feet and flashes the strobe against her flowered boots. "I guess every girl goes through a photography phase," she recites Charlotte's line, then she suspires a blissful sigh.

Her dreams, like light-leaks on redscaled films, are brimming like a colourful spectre of hymns.

Her Horal Derailment

Her guts are trussed and she smells just like the afternoon's humidity. She only had 5 hours of sleep and as usual, glum circles infest her amygdaline eyes. She eats cereals for luncheon and she smokes when nature calls. In the white-tiled loo, she sings. She admires the echolalia of her own voice: a trampoline of erratic (or other times, manic) melodies.

Her soles are pink and she tastes just like the nighttime's melancholy. Instead of numbering sheep, she resorts to estrous gazing. She doesn't drowse off, not unless she buries her eyes' glasses underneath her sheets. Sometimes, she would precede the rapid movements of her eyes and she dreams while half-awake. She lays still. And she dreams, half-asleep.

Fastforward 'til 5 hours later, it's daylight again. It's time.
Serenade her. Persuade her.

Affaire (du coeur)

Twenty-four hours or so ago, unfriendly banters collided between she and him. She, the skeptic. Him, the arrogant. But as soon as theirs palms clasped together and their jaws locked perpendicularly, loverly gestures now coincide between she and him. She becomes the bathetic. He becomes the sporadic.

The two of them are like yin and yang. But in terms of human plumage, they're both impugned. She's not the white; he's not the black. Whilst she exudes endorphins, he filters alkaloid: chocolates and cigarettes, similarly. Analogies, like the ones aforementioned, may dwell for twenty-four more hours or so.

Just like their affair, worldly but venial and true.

If Now Is Unlikely

Then someday, he shall find his damsel. She won't ever be in distress because he wouldn't allow her to be. He will twirl her hairs of blackened silk as he sings to her some arias before they sleep. He will lip-read with her lines from her favourite films. Together, he and her will glide across the skies in a balloon of hot air.

All the things he doesn't and all the ways he isn't, someday he will do and will be. All of these shall happen in the future tense. The future shall be tense for him and her damsel. She will be incomparable amongst his previous loves and lusts. And she will slaughter him. She will smother him.

Then probably, someday.

Despise, Demise

Thoughts and things of such extremes trigger herself to invent such marvellous drafts of lexicon and imagery, combined. Two of the most extreme themes are, firstly, ardour and the latter which comes to mind is, more or less, rage. She loves a solitary human being in the world, other than the Supreme One, of course. Nevertheless, she innately and unavoidably abhors the filthiness of the rest of human kind. Including her own venial sins, including her own worldly lust.

Half of her brain is suffocated with hatred. She wants to revert life to its most serene prologue, like being afloat in a mother's womb. A clean slate is what she aims for. But all has taken place and time travel is only existent in books and in minds. There's no space for taking back the unmentioned sins. Everything is here and now. She can only take the barrels off the side of her head. And then retreat, without choking - and without any speck of tears.

Constantly panicking, the axons in her cranium. Why must she be bothered by a single fleck of this other human being who, like all other dirty souls that presently walks the Earth, also thrives amongst the deadened livings? That she, who has a hollow mind and even a hollower soul, must remain in her self-produced forgery. That she, who is all-hollow, shall dwell in her lies and her scum and her husband's corpse - the both of them still unaware of their rotten misery.

Three paragraphs have been frittered away into our protagonist's loony bin. And it does her soul well. For some of the most extreme thoughts and things can only be forgiven upon immortalizing her memories into her own loop of words. And sometimes, most of those extremes are even forgotten.

Anew. Unafraid. This is your end.

Chronic, Wakeful

It's a quarter towards four in the morn and still her brain is exuding with her self-diagnosed psycho-neurotic ideas. She reaches for the box of menthol cigs, puts out a stick, and salivates like a loon. Where is the fucking lighter? Oh yes, he claimed it as his and the firestarter is, nevertheless, in his pockets. And it's all fine. She keeps back the fag and chugs down her very own starchy enzymes.

Peanut butter cups of chocolate can pose as a fix: to rescue her from a deteriorating circadian clock. Her tresses lengthen and they abseil nightly onto her air-filled slumber bed. Her nails are lengthened like her mother's. And are sullenly deprived of their usual crimson polish. Underneath are canailles of tedium and of some lechery.

Clock-ticking, inaudible. Gut-wrenching, implausible. It's now five past four in the morn. And all she can hear is whirring. She suddenly longs for her feline's purring. And her lover's nuzzling. Never mind the sheep and other bollocks, her mental forgeries shall lull her to slumber 'til the morning after.

Eight hours from now. Or even twelve hereafter.

Into The Pyre-Lit Skyes

It has always been one of her ultimate phantasies to witness with him, hand in hand or cheek to cheek even, multicoloured streaks and flickers of man-made pyre as its minute refractions lie scattered in the evened skies. The scenario, in particular, transpired last night. Their love-paced faces were solely illuminated by scarlet glints, emerald flicks, and canary flashes of musical thunders. Both of their subconscious reckoned their six years - and ever after. Photographs were outdated and only their mnemonics of this solitary night will linger thereafter. Completeness.

It was, indeed, a gloaming of colourful heterogeneousity - in their minds, their bodies, their souls. He has memorized her body language, her indelible queerness for cutaneous senses. In turn, she has locked her thoughts with his beguiling sense of mordancy and, yes, his imperative cloak of charm. They gazed up to the empyrean yonder and vivid armaments still lined its jet black vastness. "How wonderful," her eyes expressed. "Not as wondrous as you are," his lips proclaimed. Seconds ticked but the sequence laid still, their fists remained locked into each other's carpals. Completeness, seconded.

Under similar skies, amidst the entire universe, with their everlasting gaze.

Proximity Matters

His limbs are just inches from her thighs at this verily moment. One of his arms, stretched out, voluntarily stroking her integument. Her peripheral vision, though shrouded with scum, is lit by his serene exhalations, his trepid pulsations. He handed her a leaf of yellow parchment, blood-red inks from top to bottom. "You always complete my day," he scribbled in capital letters. This sentence keeps ringing in her ears, but in this certain case, it keeps reverberating in her brain. She sighs with contentment. Everything is in vice versa. Everything between she and him.

Her bedlight is turned off and all she can see are small flickering lights illuminated from some electrical gizmos. She can hear the non-stop oscillation of her room's artificial air current. She senses him via her five senses. "I am being redundant. I am insane for you." Sleepy tears trickle down her cheeks, as it is time for her to twine into against his ribs. There will be a dandy atmosphere on the morrow. It is their sixty-ninth month, there's no chance for sorrow.

For a good sight, have a good night.

Suddenly Sober

After one petite argument over the cyberwaves:

Him: With your pen and notebook, you blow me away.
She: I love you.
Him: I adore you.

Oh, youse tachycardiacs.

One July Night

To wake in your arms and to die in them too
Caught in this everlasting gaze I share with you
To inhale your smirk and to exhale your stare
Flushed to the temporary clash that locks us
To grasp your palms and to twirl your lashes
Pinched aside with your logical bruises
To watch you sleep and then wipe your eyes
Still fixed to your screaming verses that I listen to
And I, unknown.

Until now, this piece remains unfinished, untitled.

Suddenly Sullen

Whenever the atmospheric pressure is this serene, all of her neurons collide and she begins touch-typing like a lunatic. Her erraticism surpasses the epitome of lunacy, in fact. She uses extravagant adjectives and lucrative adverbs to equalize her musings but those extravagant adjectives and lucrative adverbs cannot be tantamount to her self-declared schizophrenia. Her words are fumbling like molecules in a gaseous state, trapped inside a trapezoid of illusions.

Her shank, her aching calves, still twinges from losing weight for the past twenty four hours. Dust, and hopefully not mites, are festering the five corners of her tainted room. Her stack of piracy are slowly leaning against her white wall, like a leaning tower of non-living things. Her clothesline is still color-unified, nonetheless. But her analog cameras are so stale, so deprived of slide films, and almost moth-eaten. She goes back to slumber.

She's thriving in a confined space. She's dreaming of a familiar face.

Doble Vocabulix

It has been a while since she had last felt the seams of his fingertips. She knows him so dearly that she can prance along the loops of his biometric smirches. "It has been a while," she purred to her longing self. But in realto, it has only been seven days and six nights. She listened to his cardiac pulses like they were thumping out her birth name, second by second. She wanted to bestir him from his slumber but she remained to linger in his reverie, instead.

She remembered. In one of his dreams, he recalled, "I want to photograph you wearing a dress, frolicking against the tall grasses, in a maize-coloured plain. Your candle-like fingers brushing through the weeds, your nails glamored with brick red." She remembered and she smiled without reluctance. And then she embraced him with all her might.

He immediately dozed off while she and him were watching some black and white animation, based on real events. A tearjerky, she has always been. Thus, she found herself weeping during the film's last chapter. "You are my only friend," a line which triggered her lachrymose ducts to perform their intended purpose. There's no obvious urgency for her to toss and turn tonight. Hand in hand, she dozed off, too.

It has been twelve hours and the sun's rays were basking through her jalousies. Adults don't sleep this well, they had this commonness in their minds. Their stomachs are empty and their bladders were engorged but still they managed to spare a few minutes to osculate and be adored. From then on and all their morning afters forever, they shall be sticking with each other.

We're, like, the psychics of each other's minds. Yes, you are my soul's mate.

Haute Cuisine

Its succulence is frozen; created from edible helminths, it was. Her stomach lining is thickened with the repetitive embellishment of monosodium glutamate, added preservatives, food colorings, and yes, monosodium glutamate. Sweetened delights now taste unleavened. The salinity of canned laughter is deviating towards sarcasm. She is in dire need of brand new tinges of cookery, other than the usual rechauffe. She is in a desperate craving for an amazing chocolatier. The staple carbohydrates-filled pleasance is ever-present. She only needs a more delectable viand tonight. Her stomach is grunting. Her insides are growling. She's raiding the semi-frozen haute dogs tonight.

Blood red, bottled tomatoes shall bask into her guts this night.

Erstwhile, Almost, Never

I still can smell you on my sleeves.
I still can taste you on my lips.

I’m still the fucked up twat that I am. I wrote “Marla Singer” as my name on the receipt, again. Emphasizing the still word, yes. Why does our full stop metamorphose into an unending ellipsis? It isn’t supposed to be this harsh, this absurd. But we are trapped in our own delinquencies.

You is a funny pronoun.

I still can smell you on my sleeves.
I still can taste you on my lips.

Sometime ago, I almost thought you would let it all go.

Articulatio Coxae

"You're my favourite bone," she uttered with spontaneity. His nasal bridge captivates her fancies whenever he grazes his to her cheeks. He then stroked her wafer triceps, leaned it close to his supple chest. Two hundred and six calcified anatomical parts. Two barb-wired hearts. Twice their satiety-induced betweenbrains.

As she rested her right earlobe onto his, yes, supple chest, she could literally hear that his full-pulsating heartbeats were singing an aria for her soul. As she rubbed her peculiar eyes, she became even more figurative. She nonchalantly proclaimed, "We make such a good tandem, like muscles and cartilages - the two of us, we're like Siamese twins sans the common genes, we are soulmates." Her imaginations became animated. She was in elation.

He touched her shapely pelvic bones and his insides fluttered. He could plainly visualize that her see-through hypothalamus was bellowing a metaphor for his soul. He brushed her short tresses, he clenched her legs to his, subdued. He incessantly pondered, "You weave such euphoric lines, like Welsh and his novels - you and I, we're bound to entwine, we are lovers." His fascinations became heightened. He was in liquefaction.

Since time immemorial, their neurotic romance.