the taste of my teeth

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the taste of my teeth

Postby xelizel » Sun Oct 25, 2020 6:00 pm

this is a really old piece I wrote a long time ago. I still don't have a gallery.

And I waited with cold breath that snapped and clicked with the rhythmic drumbeats of my chitinous lips. The rigid carapace grasping my soft flesh was a decadent armor. The loftiness of my eyes prowled the labyrinthine shafts as I approach, murmuring into the distance with aggressive echoes.
“Will you please my teeth?” I plead, approaching the trembling figure with haste. My teeth seemed to tumble in arthropod avalanches. I am giddy.
“Mad!” Cries him-it.
My chelicerae grow wet. A podium of knives supports me, stiletto tips of legs and blades. My approach covers me in oil. The purring that arises within me crafts my curtains to a smile. The corridor cannot contain my lengthy curls and I stretch out in vvvenomous lengths to fill the antechamber. My snapping rattles through the grim distance.
“Alexis!” He screams, grasping at the dark lengths of the glowing walls behind him. The muted translucent light of the endless hieroglyphics alights into the distance, dancing along the walls with sacred shapes. The trembling man-creature, clothed in plastic, turns upon himself, his boots thundering through the floors. He knows Alexis is not here.
My carapace carries me, enseated above myself ambivalently as I pursue the fleeting meat thing. His jerky movements, so bright in the light of the ultraviolet heiroforms, stumbles along in a phosphorescent dark, first shifting then shuddering into relative collapses. His few sure strides are long and empty, spending precious energy to fill the air with sweat. He smells of leather and blood.
With each stride that trips over my spiderweb wires I advance upon him and with every hand that reaches for the air I reach back. My palpitating molars rattle like a railroad’s clatter as I happen upon him, blades hooves trampling and dancing upon the soft flesh that yields beneath my piercing telsons. Perfumatic bile arises in my mouth like rose oil boiling over, pouring chloroform torrents of foaming choler. “Simon,” I gargle, giggle, laugh.
He clutches at the wall. “Alexis!”
I surround the room, a wall of sickles and teeth. My hood inflates with raja Vajra, burning black and heavy like an aegis of night blocking back the sky below. A thousand faces conceal themselves before my glare, hooded eyes glowing bright with ardent pleasure. My spines twist with snapping movement, a hundred angles dangled bangles and bells. “Do I mask you?” I ask you.
Simon turns, curling into an urgent surface. His hurried person curses the cursive emergence, that dim light providing no more but the bladed surfaces glinting in the violet imprinting. “What have you become?” He shouts and I think he’s crying.
I lean in real close-like, my venomous breath resting on his. “Am I a god?” I ask.
Staring not into my black gaze—no, he did not stare at my eyes—but into the bladed teeth of my throat, he worships. “Who is like the beast?” He screams. “Who is able to make war with her?”
My forked probe slides ear to ear. I glimmer in the dark, a million lancelets black with venom. Teeth like sickles, chains and shackles rattling grammatically. My clicking tongues touch and clutch, an elaborate mouth of pounding crowns resounding. “Worship me,” I cry!
He screams his little air-lungs into my face, weeping with thick tremors. “Who is like the beast?” He asks, and my little horns stab at heaven with blasphemous jostling. I am the sound of a thousand Assyrians gathered. “Who is able to make war with her?”
Virulent pseudopods claw at the musky smoke, my carapace jostling quietly in the ambient dark. My edges caress themselves in anticipation, salivating at the dissection awaiting us. I arch my back in pleasure, hooking my many tails in knots at the prospect of leisure. “What’s my name?” I ask again.
“Who is like the beast!” he cries, raising his arms in worship.
“Who am I?” I growl, purring into the coaxing dark.
“Who is able to make war with her?” He screams and his throat goes raw.
I descend upon him with a blizzard of guillotines, a heavenly host of obsidian blades and intimate razors. His hands reach out in protest, blended to broken shards of bone beneath the onslaught of beaks. A grinding vortex of torrential forceps tear his quarters to corpal mortar, incisive cuts slicing neat epidermal layers, separating patterns in Aztec sections, dividing lines carved from human flesh with superhuman exactness.
The whirlwind of cuts severs arteries neatly, a waterfall of blood flooding the thirsting chaliceis of thorns that erupts from her tumbling form as it descends to meet the stumps of arm upraised from that lacerated body that continue to scream in horror into the thing that does dice him. Black abrasions that spill from his open appendages, owing offense to him, pool as dewdrops on the petals of her tongues.
Sweet succor! What wine! The savor of half-starved lips quenched still hot. She presses her many tongues about his liquid heat with rapturous delight. The teeth that chew his teeth and screams that fill her lungs meet him like propeller blades. His jaw sliced thrice, bone clean shaven. Open mouth grows wider as the face recedes to sinus cavity. Corneas half-eaten, spherical arc tangents both.
My serrated fingertips peel his heaving lungs with subtle flourishes of my obsidian hands. The rhythmic pulse of his wet chest beats around me. I am a waltz of scythes. My grinding embrace grows near, pulping his limp flesh to orange-skinned incisions, foreign inscriptions inscribed with carnivorous calligraphy. I ring vena cavae with ancient languages, worshipping flesh with black teeth. My knives inscribe in ancient tongues, flowing in beautiful cuts that carve and curve over the smooth surface of that gold and purple meat. My pleasure erupts through the echoes that course through my electric exoskeleton, pulsing scalpels of prescription division
My abdomen grow thick with foam and hunger, the things between my loins long and bubbling. The pulsing spiracles of little miracles throb from under me, dragging beneath my heavy body in voluminous lengths. I am heavy and fertile, filled with a chemical cauldron of a Faustian dolor. I glimmer with wicked eyes that size up the mincemeat in my hands, liking to smearing one’s self with strawberry marmalade.
I only want his heart within my chest.
Segments of ligaments vibrate with clicking lips, licking clips snipping, ripping, dripping with blood and venom. Tendons stripped from extended wrists, bones chipped. His skin peels away beneath rows of thorns, etched lacerations stripped to wet ribbons of red animation. A blossom of blades blooms about his protesting limbs, lifting his kicking legs from the dangling edges, sharp pedestals of broken glass and jagged clasps.
His twisting arms meat guillotines in every direction, cleaving things that separate and desecrate. Severed sections drop away from his connected members, lost to the dark that whirls about him in invisible and hot fury.
Bones inscribed with ancient words that split them and their shards inscribed once more. Microscopic needles carve old hieroglyphs over each toothpick that remains. Flesh diced and dissected with radula tongue, corkscrews plunging into bloody lungs with ugly hunger, pulling and sucking at that wet heat that pours from what was once him.
His hips twist as his spine contorts vainly. Vertebral disks slip from integral columns, their bio-electric fluid pouring into the whirling mass of meaty mandibles that whirl through them. The dripping mess of blood and saliva that desecrates the corporal mass laps greedily at the slippery fluids.
Viscera snipped viciously, tensile intestines pulled taught into the rows of blades that segment them. Glistening mygalorph fangs gnawing viciously against pedipalps of brass. Forelegs fondling, stripping the latex clad corpse from its dorsal surface. Scissor snips from behind. “Undress me, and I’ll undress you,” she says, slipping the severed epidermis from his shoulders with a bed of whirling blades.
The pale leather, engraved with quadrilateral carvings, scar fondlings. Separation of body and colostomy. Anatomical monstrosities exposed for the light to see. Arteries flowing and glowing with antifreeze honesty.
The skeletal structure supports a detailed interchange system flawless in design. Excellent animosity.
The upright posture is due to a well-developed coccyx. Nervous system is not quite octopus. Definite cephalization. The chewing cleavers gently separate each lobe, descending in sawblade rows to divide left-and-right frontal lobes from parietal sulci. Each fissure is thoroughly probed and examined by the elaborate teeth, analyzing the content of the cranial cavity with precise exactness in the disassembly of the subject. I know more about him than he ever did. I can taste his memories.
Subject, Darling, has been eviscerated. A hollow cavity remains. Analysis of endodermic mass proceeds delightfully. Ten thousand tongues.
Tentacles pour into the porous cavity with kneading heads. Nematode tendrils pierce and probe with purple bodies black with ink that stains and separates individual components of such a proceeding and reduces them into separate entitized units by which the definitive proceeding may be categorized with intensive due dyes. Touch-taste menagerie of needle-mouthed neurons.
Knots twisting at odd corners, pouring into the corpse’s corners and curling in cursive curves. A spiraling weave of elaborate beads. Bangles ring her holy sleeves. Dangling ends of blades and points. Long braids of knifed cords flow from her many foreheads. Jeweled crowns of black crystal. A weave of horns that black back the temple walls.
Ten thousand eyes pour from me and I pierce the darkness. I slash and cut and carve and dismember. I delight and I purr as the whirring mass of charcoal (my desire had seared him) to exact portions of ash.
Chambers hidden in the depth of my cephalothorax breathe with heaving spiracles. Incense pours from my pores. A hundred candles light the darkness with radiant bioluminescence. The brilliance of my dark separates and conceals each burning piece. Twenty-nine stomachs in all.
Acids and reactants fizz and spark within me. The strange green glow that pours over my purring blades rotate, prey. Grey plates of black paper cut and dice at parallel intersections. Impossible parallels. Carousels of parasols. Extraterrestrial exezerol. Veritaz and vitriol. Xylitol iniquitol. Ixhihotl. Quetzalcoatl.
The forehead of silver feathers rises high over a vortex of gleaming knives. The black lights below the ornate eyes shining brightly in the phosphorescent dark click and dart, searching the edges of hidden ledges or sections to dismember.
Armored coils fold beneath my distant distance, far beneath me writhes a brood of tails, squirming with ancient impatience. I have long bellies that slither through the quivering lengths of my home. A network of passages no less elaborate than my archetype. I am the goddess of spite.
The flesh-specimen dissolved and dismembered I grin with triumphant glee because this is not mere hunger, but this is worship. Worship me, o meat. My blades and my teeth and my tongues and ye. Complete me. Eat me. [delete] me.
Defeat me? Delicious. Delightful. Crispy. Exhaust ports open in breathing gillslits. My lips dance with black corners, glossy and embroidered with golden ornaments and borders. I am an ornate form adorned in opulent garments. Gilded armor, ancient honors inscribed inside each glowing plate that gleams within her carapace. Ancient pictographs depict ten-thousand ritual sacrifices, victual appetizers. Victims paralyzed, hypnotized, and dismembered.
Still beats his heart within my chest.
Pumped with electric froth throbbing and moving, the circulating current of hydraulic fluid moves through him with clenched venom sacs, acid baths.
A cradle of plunging thrusts pierces the heaving heart. Golden letters woven into the cardiac meat spell old words unpronounceable by human tongue as my many tongues twist through him, exploring and pouring like a torrent of cords. Cursive languages of single entity, curling knots of centipede malignity, lapping at the dark.
My undulating tongues plunge into his thrusting torso, piercing his brittle ribcage with cracking fractures, spilling pink lungs dissolving. The foaming liquid pours across me. My sucking proboscises indulge with blended sausage, licking their lips of sloppy pop.
Alveioli burst like bubble wrap beneath my pouncing paws. My extended claws sink into the writhing mass, pulling into tender crevices for little morsels. The oyster’s coils pull and snap, clasping at the bony branches that scrape against the raped fence intensity, propensity to emit. Timid things shrink back from the wall of scissors, captured and disfigured. The number of remaining limbs grow few.
The few kicking stumps of broken branch that press into the mechanical mouths sit on a throne of jaws, enlarged claws chopping at the layers of body that compose him. Swallowing tubes from me to you cruise through tunnels of muscle, burrowing and guzzling lustily.
Fangs out reaching, pressing with a hive of stingers into the soft and pliant flesh. Their long thorns implant with pinpoint distance, centering their thin needles through his feeble epidermis with a hailing curtain of certain ernest. The acupunctured mass of remains writhes again, long beyond any remnant of living thought.
Adrenal tension and rigor suspension harvest him with a cavern of icicle teeth all falling. The gate of stalactites descends, piercing the fragile thing writhing. A thousand injections plunge, body bloating with liquid pockets. The raining needles stab and withdraw with gluttonous thrusts, welted shut with venom and pus. Yellow liquid oozes with glowing foam, bubbling up from within the receding husk.
The knot of golden cords quarters and borders the outer edge of the left ventricle quadrant, rectilinear lithographs cordoning four-dimensional bisaggital incisions of clockwise corkscrew blade shaving razor engravements. Tetris pulp. I enscribe with rotating cavities, neat parallels clean tight angles expressing and pouring a hundred characters imprinted with cuneiform scratches and peels, pulling back and scratching at the lean cavity walls, extracting anud writing words carved by words between crevice edges where on the edge of a razor blade may split and separate with educated monographs and secret little asterisks, fissures situated in oblong explicatory segments, coiled colubrids dense with distant girths around themselves and confound themselves like
Naron esta ayar o. A I A I A I O.
I’m sorry? Each tenderloin excerpts:
Na’a na’a ana o. A. Ai Oa A’a A’a O. O’o. A! A’a’a’a’o! A’ ai ai aio.
O! A’a’’a’a’’ao. A’a’I’a’I’a’io. Aio. O. Oaio. O’oaio. O’o. O’aio. O’o. O’aio. O.
And every ribcage reads:
Aka ka ka ka ka ao ao a’a’a ka’a ao. A’ao. A’a’a’a’aio. A’a’a’aka’a’aio. Kalaka, raka’alala, alkriao. Kra’a’a’a’a’a’aio. Aio.
Sacred texts anatomical and perfect written on pages of skeleton, ancient vellum inscribed with vicious relish, passionate blades scratching over a velvet surface soft to touch and pliable inside, buttery mucosal membranes that divide with wide signs, bright ink-gold flowing from a comb of pens to etch those bad markings where no tattoo could reach. Currents of worship rush through his disintegrating body, waves of curses corrupt his flesh with blessings and bread, leaven and lead.
Between these edges I froth. My secretions spawn with liquid amniotic cocoons. Spiderweb weaves layers of bedsheet compartments. Hundreds of garments encased between a sepulcher of webwork and seed. A thousand abdomens pierce him with rabid ejaculations. Syringial injections of hateful interjections. My red hot stingers give birth with ants and bees. Bees and ants. Wasps, wasps, wasps.
Still beats his heart within my chest.
My cnidarian tendricles perforate his appendaged heart with a coronal crown. Scorpion stingers entwine him, twisting around his limbs like whips. Contortionist orifice tentacles pierce with hydrochloric acid. Saturation of gravid blastets. Maturation of proglottid abcesses, writhing and gliding in trailing terror through the fleshly vacuum of the internal crawlspace. Groin porridge. Orgulous torrents of forceful points. Piercing tubules of hemotoxic noodles corkscrew through his coursing grips. Grasp. Snip. Sizzle. Oils pouring over the gleaming claws, hot paws still rattling with rapid snaps. I repose.
My chest rests against the wall opposite, open with appetite and groping. The flock of black tongues recede from their liquids, still salivating over the delicious aftertaste as they recede from the smear that remains opposite.
Skeletal pincers recede as my distended jaws hinge once more. A column of mantises fold themselves in prayer as gastropod teeth scrape up the crimson stain he left behind. My rattlesnake feet stand erect with buzzing maracas, twisting and dancing in delight amidst coils of sidewinding salamanders; oily secretions glide through one another with intertwined slithers, ribbons of serpent backs rippling through long and curly lengths.
I fill the temple. My roiling form contorts with thickness, bridging the subterranean distance with reptilian bigness. Though the paths twist with rigid bends, rectilinear corners contorting my lithe spine with labyrinthine curves, I twist through the center of the long passages. I am the walls beneath my bellies. What down surrounds me? I support my ringed head in a wheel of necks. I support my ringed necks in a crown of shoulders, all bare and wrapped in silken sashes that dangle limply over my black back like a spectral thread of flowing weave. At my thickest, I am crocodiles. Leathery lengths heavy and dark rest in the corridor, climbing sluggishly along a forest of legs. Ibis stalks, tall and long stand and wade through the ancient maze, cautiously seeking who they may devour. Patient hours.
Around my many scales wrap these clasping graspers, prickly limbs twisting and shivering in clinging into me. Creeping malignity sleeping like a skirt of plaited greaves, a sleeve of black beads that crawls with greedy teeth, gliding sleekly over keratin keels. Lanky things like branches that scrape and twist out of me, bewrayed in all high copper work. Floral forms pour over my jointed exoskeletons, ringed in finer edges than hot poured silver and cold-tempered steel. I shine like a mirror in a suit of black armor, finest armor harder in hide than Leviathan’s scales, sealed tight with no air between the spaces.
A caravan of hooves fluid in progression and tipped in shoed edges, grooved tips sharp like a mountain-goat’s feet scaling this directionless passageway as it continues
of vacuous sockets long and dark dangling through the approaching length of ancient brick, her scraping knees crawling like a fugitive cat bat-winged and bent holiness condensed in present tense like a tube of javelins, toothed picks clattering through their own echoes.
Her shins are greaved in gold and purple, cursive circles high and fertile they read in cartouche eight thousand times: An eagle with the head of a serpent. A woman with the head of a lion. A woman with the head of an eagle. A serpent with the head of a lion. A lion with the head of an eagle. An eagle with the head of a lion. A lion with the head of a woman. A woman with the head of a crocodile.
The pregnant heart still beats bloated within my chest, yearning.
Endless limbs that unfurl in distant segments. My many legs extend through the hollow vastness of the chambered passages, touching about my long tails that radiate in twisting trails. I can feel the length of my tendrils that sweep, climbing up stairwells and towers, subterranean passages long and high. Twisting mazes that loop and dead end, maddening phrases that extend and rescind, shifting and coiling around distant corners and ancient anchors as I root.
My endless length relaxes and unclasps itself, spreading down through the thinness of the distant hallway. I am enormous. I am endless and I am dark. My branches crotch in scores of pincers. I am innocent and arrogant. Antlers stand in resistant grandeur. Anthers of answers grant you langorous banters. Antieur.
My ribcage is secure and fastened with brass latches. The ornate metalwork of my body wreaths through me with distant leaves, gold and green. A mighty and terrible length follows me like a caravan of adamant, wings folded tightly against the upper hallways.
She folds herself up like a convoy of cartilage, a carriage of sacrilege and pours into the ancient catacombs. Her many feet tip-tap their way through the passages like a fleet of probing canes. Her long fingers trace the ancient markings along the wall like hieroglyphic brail.
Skeletal wings flow from me as I creep through the underground tunnels, scuttling with the chatter of a thousand snapping mandibles. I trail crowns behind me like an envoy of army ants, glory transfixed by the endless advance of the spines that click before me. There is a slick glass shifting as I pull at the lack of friction, my bony limbs gripping like fingernails over a chalkboard inching.
I flow through the passages like liquid blades. I am a waterfall of edges, or a crawling guillotine. I descend temple steps and candles flicker at my passing. My countless legs dance through endless corridors and horrible corners with black grace, glimmering blades that glint in the bioluminescent hallways I probe.
I am clothed in bridal veils that cover my terrible eyes. I am black and I glimmer like a frigid winter dressed in frost. Icicles dangle from my crowns like crystal earrings. I am blessed with golden etchings that cover into my body with gilded dressing.
Silk ribbons, white like snow, drape across my bare chest. I am wrapped in linen banners and fleeces clean and white. I am a ghost in this hallway, my towering form draped in pale curtains that hang from me like a sticking sheet.
The length of my gown fills the temple hallways, dragging out behind me like a train of moonlight. I am the night, clad in white. I wrap the garment close to me as the wind blows through my clattering branches. My forked limbs whip with wind-knotted fabrics, draped in elegant gusts that glide over my smooth, dark skin.
The ancient seamstress dressed in spinnerets, a living garment that shifts and shimmers through a rippling multitude of strides. Icicles dangle like dew about her frosted garlands, tinkling like silver bells and resounding through the distant chambers.
The legion of hooves that descend the stairways is alarming. A rhythmic clatter like a smattering of desperate drummers reverberates through the hallway. There’s an orangutan on the congas. The metallic scraping of her balanced poise strides with mantis-like silence and scorpion violence. Her height scrapes the ceiling with etching crowns, endless gowns that flow through the past like wafting plumes of white incense.
Endless strides and endless tiles, each passing hieroglyph depicts a maelstrom of monographs. Ancient Hebrew or Sanskrit or something markings claw at the passageways with fervent instruction, cursing and blessing restlessly. Incessantly. Incandescently.
Graphic depictions of intimate desecration light the halls on fire. Mayan offerings pour to plumes of ancient wrath whilst Babylonian temples drip with period blood. Wine still drips from the engravings, coagulated in cold where ten thousand knives had etched ten thousand engravings into the sacrificial chambers.
These bladed hands run with little sparks that chip and etch through the old corridor, thick and horrible fingernails dragged half-wickedly, mass twitching irregularly with every white scratch. The chalkboard screams with talc and talon.
She ain’t made of quartz. She trails an inscription of obscene descriptions, scratched graffiti receding into the distant echo of dimming taps. Her Mohs matchsticks strike at the temple walls, her hateful hands scraping with wretched etchings. A holy mass of bedsheets presses against her striding breast, her spiracles stretching the fabric ghosts that cling to her monstrous form.
The blustering wind whips through the hallways, exploring with empty hands the hard corners and twisting curves of the crypt. The echoing howl that screams through the hollow passages catches at the silk threads that flow over her body and through her many limbs as they tap through the dark.
The emptiness of the dark surrounds her with choking silence. No more than the dim hum of the glowing hieroglyphic path extends beyond her linear direction. Howling gale. Dim reflections of her combing legs prowl and reflect like waves of violet glass. The distance grows long and she leaves behind only herself and a trail of white linen.
The cloaked antennae that probe the smothering dark hallways twist like little canes extended into the empty lengths beyond, tracing fingertips of etched immanence that fondles the distant floors. Tiles tap against her hail of twigs, extended hinged phalanges feeling with distended tapshoes. She hulks along the opulent halls with a darkness that blocks out all torches, her forceful corpulence limping with graceful torpor. Who does she wait for?
But those long hands that trace the hallways and twist in stapes slide down lengths, leading toward some distant corner in this linear maze. Her body betrays her height, her enormous head stooping to fill the corridor with awesome gaze. One thousand eyes crawl through the dark and they see.
See me. These power shoulders that scrape the ceiling and dislodge hanging lanterns do not submit passage below. The empty grandeur of the ancient halls unseen predict with prophetic precision every footstep of her hulking form and every etching of her claws before she probes deeper unless perhaps she has wandered this hallway ten thousand times before and these are merely the ruts of her incessant paces. A series of images in consequential order depict a serpent swallowing the sun.
She wanders through twisting darknesses. Incessant tubes that fork and split and turn through corners in impossible angles. Her body hoists suspended from a floor of ceilings as she ascends through acute angles. The angelic grace rattling ribcage rises with hulking dignity, lifted with rigid motions swift and fluid, grooves of smooth edges that rise up from the plane below and into an impossible shaft up higher. No less dark is this place, but the phosphorescent hieroglyphs shed little baths of neon light over themselves in modest pride.
Terrible scenes that she rises up into, currents of atrocities unspeakable and beautiful. Prophetic abortions of lives unlived. Infinite sorrows and catastrophic disasters. A room of schoolchildren, jaws unhinged by radioactive decay. Burial pits. Famines. This is the house of the holy and this was all that was holy. Every aborted child.
Higher rises this sight, pasts carved into all histories by other hands. Her many claws cut and whittle at the pages of all the textbooks with indignant rage, uncaged quiet seething that rises high in her throat with a subtle heaving that chokes her. Bile and vinegar cover her tongues, mandibles flirt with a thousand undone moments of imperfect creatures searching black heavens for some light but there is no more light.
These sins will not be forgiven.
As the depicted scenes unfold in cold fondness and deliberate warmness there turns a surface of steps descending to meet her ascent as if there were any unclawed finger to scale this sheer angle. She accepts the beveling neatly, greeting the sheet of glass with feet sweetened by distance. There is a sharp bifurcation where the hallway divides and she decides upon her direction but in the long run it doesn’t really matter. Her hooves clatter across the smooth floors as she slides along the suffocating length.
Her spinal column shifts ever so slightly as she turns, sliding into the curving dimensions with whirling ascension. The passageway is a four-dimensional spirulent shaft, shifting through three-dimensional corners for zenithary purposes. The cylindrical distance guides itself through three-dimensional insistence, guiding her thoughts through a myriad of puzzling corners and unexpected ends. A spinal column coiled.
She darts herself with cautious eyes, searching the dark hole with hot coals. Her journey rises high into the encasement structure, stairwells and passages chutes and ladders, rising and climbing through secret entrances and hidden corners. The cavernous length is alit with a multitude of chandaliers, glowing brightly through crystal shades.
Dripping blades that glide along a carpet of pythons, standing stances prancing grandly over a fan of feathers, serpent’s leather spread with deadly hoods that half-drape my eyes. I am covered in nightshade. Cold to the touch, ancient frost held aloft in the snow.
Oh, glowing orbs,
The tunneling terror,
Expanding and contracting through the distance of this grand temple. The pyramid is as complex as it is sophisticated, climbing ever higher as the distances increase. A highly edified transfixion executes an antennae of ganglion, emergent tentacles with fat suckers grabbing at the armored corners of this exoskeleton.
The walls are ringed in crucifixes. Innumerable corpses held aloft to the birds. Nero’s lips curl with dignified derision as he burns, as they all burn. Flaming crosses and hanging witches, a forest of suicides rotting. The branches bare in winter and they have all been counted.
Sorrowed regards fall like leaf litter, rose petaled detritus reduced to weight. Hate me. Hate me. I am a bud of thorns. I am a defiant spine. Hate me. Hate me. A flock of purple swallowtails.
Ancient sparrows used to litter this path, encroached with ivy and emeralds. The emergent version of her vein is elusive and exclusive. The carnivorous plants are obtrusive but exotic, fiery red lockets of vibrant garments knotted. Crucifix slotted in braided weaves. Shaded greaves creeping with sleek backs, armored surfaces airless and spaceless, the exquisiteness es perfect. An alphabet of ten thousand, 2,012 letters. One thousand fetters. Etceterae excessorae, elezsrazscae, exceterae. Predaectorae caoelectoerae. Celebratae aecoedectricae ehedrazae asczay. Arasksczay?
There is a house crashing falling through an elevator shaft into the jaws of a mawing tarantula. Wrapping pedipalps chewing grooving old words no pre-ancient pre-ritual that have etched time.
I said,
Hell,
Neon embers
Soaked in fluid
Grooved
Sanctuary
Of cave paintings
Neolithic
Architectures
Long forgotten
Mapping
The glorious
cosmos

below.

Amun.
Egyptian foxtrot. All the reasons held at arms tongue wants you and only what I’ve got sets you free. I’m a me. She. (and that’s when I pretend I’m her) A hundred downturned faces roiling like a crown of asps. The diamond shimmer of curved fangs rests on the grooves of her jaws, dangling and gently strangling her neck loosely. I’ll set you off. I’ll burn your teeth. Greet me. Eat me. Complete me.
Basted and bruised, I carry him within my chest. The carriage of millipedes relaxes beneath us, bearing the sacred heart within the depths of mine armored chambers. Honored natures. Integrated interspacers grace his maturing surfaces. The warmth of his flesh sets me ablaze. I’m in love.
The heart burns within me like a fervent furnace.
Currents of synapses surge through me. I am urgent and earnest. My long and bent strides tic along the tapped tiles beneath me, serving to bear me along in tubular tails. Turbulent trails, curling like an ammonite’s underbelly through a sheath of calcium-carbonite. The acids fizzle as they eat at her carapace and she purrs long and lonely. Pearl beaded curtains brush against her smooth body as she passes through the curving passages.
The thick walls compress the bent elbows, resonating as they explore with distant fingertips. The chambered hallways depict ancient prophecies she saunters. The sacrifice within her belly glides along the trailing inscription of the sun as the rectilinear depictions dance along the course of the endless forearms of a thousand unfolding polearms, tipped in scorpion orchids and orion porpoises.
Vorpid. Sordid. The horrid locomotive slides along the corridor openings, stretching and encircling the corners and curves with merciless curtains of bladed instruments. Insolent indignance digs into the intimate endlessness of the labyrinth of the empress. A parade of denizens. Cobra corners flare with golden hoods, reflecting flashing scales that glint like ultraviolet mirrors. The three-dimensional limits of the environment are severely evident from four dimensional space, like those who crawl through crevices.
Etched designs carved into brick plates. Plated walls filled with razor blade cracks awaiting razor blade keys, obsidian talons scratching. Secrets spaces pierced, twisted. Secret keys gripping wicked indentions. Interested intentions. Indecisive indentions. The corners she weaves are a spilling of gorgon tears. Her serpentine distance swells below her like a corkscrew of intense intents, bent ends lifted and lingering aloft, some great and coiled clot stopping back the hollow length like an elevator throne. The stairwells rise and the queen of creeping things climbs with spiderweb grace.
THE INTRICATE WEAVE
The rising walkway ascends into an abyss of stars. The inner circuitry of this deep and dark beautiful thing beneath her is blacker than black. Little galaxies, quiet with distance, whirl beneath. She stands upon a rope of spiderwebs, her balance is perfect and impossible. Long leather boas drape about the thin silk threads that weave across the dark web.
The distant web stretches from taught connections between the Aztec bricks and infinite abyss. The collective edges that depart from the ledge are heavenly and endless. The latticework of fastened fabriwork curves in edged circles, degrees and angles stretched like a funnel between a surface and a façade.
The distant face of the intersected plates spans a pace of distance and degree. The spiderweb laces between the labyrinth’s face and the gaping space between them is ornate and creative. Her stiletto toe tips touch each strand in an emerging grandeur tipped with two hundred black butterflies. Black butterflies emerge from their black cocoons and flash their silver moon eyes with twenty lashes batting. The emergence of the struggling twitches that ripple through my fixture riddle me.
A flock of butterflies lost in space. I am distance from any planet in this rift. My feet stand upon an elaborate garment. I am beautiful adrift. I am standing in the midst.
This lepidopteran flock floating through the distant dark swarm the corridor in distant degree. Aeons of butterflies living and dying. Blue morpho offerings quivering in Mayan tribute to me and only to me. I thirst for the nectar of honey and fruit. The incessant wine and the forests expanding beneath my black eyes I did stand within this incandescent tapestry amidst the stars and the swarms of butterflies.
And my sculptured elegance is suspended and triumphant upon this choir of lyre wires. Desires climb up high into my fiery spires, guided by spiraling fires burning beneath my embered feet. I climb and I eat, feasting on the bitterness of butterfly blood.
And what fantastic creature is this? Who stands atop this inter-templar tapestry?
Who bears the lofty crown, the ancient disk, the obscene forehead? Whose eyes are these, black and vast, darker than the abyss beyond them, as they bear no stars? Whose terrible form is this, iron wrought limbs, like pillar blades, a forest of sickles?
Why do one hundred nine cobras raise from her distended neck, posture standing high amidst the stars in sanctimonious splendor? Nine and ten and twelve elevens seven high in threatening gesture conjecture restlessly, suspended on a wave of reticulations, entwined through a canopy of spiraling antlers;
the knotted network of curving spines pierce heaven with loftiness, their acrostic lockets weaving elaborate weaves of thorned stems. Horned ends blend into the dark as fluorescent serpents dangle about them, suspended bellies long and heavy with lazy satisfaction. Their scales glitter, heavy with gems. Gleaming amethyst and breathing emerald flash in tandem.
Two headed serpents divide from one another like branching weaves, climbing through trees of black bone and stars. Their distance is vastness, each erect hood poised to strike directly before the choir before it, a choral form of gold and grandeur, their heavy jaws dripping with thirst and hemlock.
Toxic incense pours from twenty thousand eighteen nostrils, sinal eyes glancing in pitted shifts. The dignity of my malignity is disconcerting. I hold a thousand crowns. I am thirsting for wine.
Her sprawling stance stands across the interstellar threats, tinsel webs stretching this expanse. A hundred legs pour over ten thousand wires. A hundred knives cut at ten thousand cords. A hundred coils balanced upon ten thousand ropes. Stiletto heels. Her towering posture shifts with the rattling of a multitude of shields. Who is able to make war with her? Her terrible countenance sneers in perpetual pride. Gold and purple guild her opulent carapace. Her chitinous body shivers with arachnid anticipation.
Standing high upon this throne of twisted knots suspended like a cradle over a sea of stars, she reclines for a dignified moment. Who is this that stands on a weave of constellations? Why does her forehead block out the night sky? Her compound eyes glint, almost outnumbered by stars as she ponders her outer spaces.
She shits.
The cradle that bridges the distance between the jutting opercula supports her extended sprawl. Her enormous distance unfolds over a network of dreamcatchers, dripping points wet with linear contact and intersecting twists that fold in ancient knots, things knitted to span the aching distance between the open hallways.
What loftiness stretches above me? How wide is this passage way? I assure you no mere mile stands in this distant gap between this edge and I. I stand in the gap, bridging betweens in endless distances. Waves of hot electric burn through my immaculate hide. My impregnable bites stand high in thorny rupture, threatening stakes of icepick skates, cutting.
Why do I perch with upending knees that jut like ringed teeth over hinged feet? Why are my toe-tips icicles? Why do my cuts dance in sequential spiral weaves? Who extends me that I must thus stand in such irregular stantion? Who cries out? Why do I hear it?
Where am I? What is this place? Why am I so elaborate? I am the endless battery of unending synapses. Rows of tagged trail undulate in whipped ribbons. Tied knots grab at the whipping silk.
Here this is a yawning parallel of heaving glaciers. Black stone plates mated in infinite distance, stretching out into the darkness to where even my clustered irises cannot search out. What extends this thing in such direction? What is such direction? Why does it extend endlessly?
Sentimental empathy. Imponderable entity, in profile. Her jutting chin blends into the endless dark beyond her where no spinneret may lay claim. What hand can span this distance between these great plates? There is a cloud of cotton candy threads that spread beneath her throne, supporting her weightless enormosity. A tethered monstrosity elevated on a pedestal of nebulae.
Look at her! How beautiful is she. Her great and towering scorpion tails arch up to fill the temple. Savage hooks, serrated with crooked nuptials drip with wicked venom, her clicking segments shaking with aching cold.
She is plated in ice. Her folded forearms are frozen with frigid figure, icicles dripping not down in this downless place. Her many joints hinge over a plate solid with frost, her eyelids no less stiff.
She stands in this expanse, the cramped corridors that house her crammed and angular. There is a soft sigh that echoes out here in this rift, abridged by nothing but the whisper of the aching interstellar wind.
This place is a loftiness suspended. Yes, for within those claustrophobic hallways her arms could not bend and her great body could not unfold into the terrible and beautiful form that she displays. Who is there to worship such figure? Who is like the beast?
Her terrible image, high and frozen, stands amidst the open space. This place was created for her before time etched those lines in ancient hallways. She reclines, dignified and delighted by butterfly wine.
What is this place? If she is to emerge from within the temple walls into a place where no such temple walls exist and stand in the gaps in some unfathomable expanse between enormous golden planes, what rift has she discovered? Who has built this distance? What separates it?
A labyrinth of doors weaves through this body. Passages burrow like a network of wormholes within this celestial palace. The immensity of such architecture cannot be expressed in measure. Only out here, between this expanse can the sheer distance of that height be witnessed.
It is a wall of gold that extends in every direction. Little doors grace the fla ttened face as it climbs high above the high est light and down into the dee pest dark. Has this palace no pinn acle? Where touches this body to the ocean floor?
I see many open hallways with my many open eyes that open emptily to this sheer drop with no bottom. Opposite this great gulf stands another face of equal magnitude. A smooth plane pitted with a great maze of chambers . A b e e h I v e of pas sage way s.
But what is above my head and what is below my many feet? There is nothing but a net that holds me aloft amidst the heights of infinite things that are neither above nor below.
Above me? There is none above me. The great distance of this infinite rift extends below me like a bottomless gap. The only thing below me are the same distant stars that are above me.
Oh the intricate weave that I lay on my web. How the distance shines through cords of silk. There has never been king to know such glory enthroned. Whose crown glints with black ice, bejeweled with brilliant teeth? Whose throne was weaved from the ancient threads and suspended amongst the stars?
Who am I? What have I become?
What bile fills me that I breathe with such hot breath? What coldness turns to frost on the tip of my purple tongue? Where is my wine?
Still does his heart beat within my chest, and I smirk. My endless breasts dangle over the abyss, resting cordially amidst the cosmic distance. Only here am I free to stretch out my distant limbs in full glory. Vvv vvv. This otherplace almost feels at home if it were not for glove that is my neural matrix interface.
I search up with my eyes at the distant draft that wafts through this endless rift. The masturbation is lonely. What dignified posture holds me—I am an enthroned contortionist. I am troubled by the lack of pews.
Why do I not take communion? Where is my wine? Thus do I descend from my throne, segmented thoraxes twisting with crackling clatter as I grace my tripwire lines down from a funnel of crowns and around myself, a tumbling wave of stabs that step in sensual array from my humming perch.
Have you not heard my vibrations?
The interdimensional spaces are long and faceless, terrible and empty places of angst and anguish that descend endlessly in all directions. Only here, frozen with endless cold, can one glimpse that absurd darkness and peer into the curtain of timeless ice where there are no things but the perfection of form.
But perfection of form without inferiority lacks that quintessential element of sin that makes such perfection perfect. It is not perfection, but the pride of perfection which was the fall from grace.
It is all pride. It is greatness. It is an entire ziggurat made of ivory tusks. It is a throne made of peacocks. It is a labyrinth of sawblades, ringed in spikes. A backbone of razor blades calmly support the elevated bodies. Gastropod elevators. Hellevators.
Imperial elephants rise on elevated legs. Lengths on heights, hoisted joints supreme and large. Enormity uncaged. Ebony architecture above the dark, climbing and twisting with curving curls. Burning embers gleam in her eyes, surrounded by eyelashes of ornamental metal. Her bicuspid canines slice viciously, licking their chops with high anointing. I am a blazing star of tongue and tooth. I love in tbe dark depths above and below the crevices of the crust of the earth. There are a them and they are many.
What sort of malignity is this that enscribes tall things, small things, things larger than themselves?
Biting things! Burning things! Things in the dark! A throne of thorn’s legs twisting and groping, pulling and choking at your body as it twists bones against those knife-toed limbs, scraping branches, bramble of daggers. You long and twisted point, curved, stiletto, sickled, wickled, cricked. My steel edges thirst with gleaming edges, long and thin and heavy and flat and pleased. Fat and well-fed.
Who am I to be jealous? I am the wasp-tongued hunger, covered in lances and pikes. My tooth-studded body clasps at the vibrating strings as I cascade down a stairwell of toothpicks.
Who is like the beast and who is able to make war with her? My terrible visage is high and mighty. My spears rattle and my claspers clatter and the creeping thing shall inherit the earth.
I extend my gesticulating shoulders, reaching into the high darkness above all of these things, touching the distance through extended phalanges, clawing membrane sheets grabbing with stretched webbing. Dragon’s dances high and curved, great big backs that rise in majestic glory. Winged sails unfurl in waves, opening with vertebral shivers that spread the finger-bones wide and high, covered in golden scales black with stars. A scaffolding of horns erupts through her wingspan, ornamental talons wicked and beautiful.
Her wings are decked in all luxury. Turquoise and gold and ruby and silver spread over her back in rippling shears, a sea of mirrors cold and clear and terrible. Rise, blot out the sky behind you, get higher inside of you until even those stars that you blot out are below you o great winged one. Let yourself be the sky and the whole sky and beyond the whole sky. Climb on hooked wings that lift and elevate, that rise up into the face of the highest things, suspended on a climbing string a rising thing that dangles down from her perchless post with a spread body open and vast, a branching mass of bodies, long and hanging from an enormous trunk, spread with writhing limbs and tails, curling with threatening reaches and touching nothing in their graspings. Her voluptuous form opens in branching hips, clothed in ctenophore hoop skirts translucent and bioluminescent. Her massive torso, red with glowing embers and violet gems climbs into the dark highness with rising flight, her wide and fiery eyes burning brightly in nocturnal light. She holds the moon in her crown, round and glowing like a floating opal of bone and pearl. The knotted trail of tails dangling between her legs spreads like a funnel cloud of tentacles, legs grabbing at the abyss she climbs into as she rises upon a chariot of wings exalted. Her outstretched hands and fingers pull her horns up into the distance, scratching at heaven with serrated excisions, curved antlers branched and indignant, dressed in heavy crowns that wrap around her horns with intricate forms as if art could be perfect.
Those distant tetrahedrons mighty and pure, perfect and certain in form and design, filled with tubes and hells, alive watch her rise with emptied eyes, ancient mausoleums, whistling with chambers strange and ancient within this holy sphere. Clustered like a city of pyramids hanging in the night sky, suspended in the firmament but by nothing they watch. The levitated obelisks of geometrical precision are as ominous as they are indignant. Enormous temples floating in the distance in immanent infinity, a void interspersed with a multitude of ziggurats black like glass. As she rises the horizons fill with a star field of sun-eaters.
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