☨ qu'est-ce que c'est ? ; sura.
( / revel in his apocrypha , he clutches his skull between palms of maroon streams, saline and hemoglobin amalgamated into these broiling rivers within his skin . . . the festering corpses of pisces mutants don’t torment him any longer, the putrid perfume a melody to their sinking anarchic ship, so he breathes, inhales, inhales, inhales – absorbs the ravenous disposition of aquatic carnivores and stares into the corridor of flickering illumination, the soles of his shoes immersed in shallow floodwater )
“ sura. ”
( / and he had never thought he’d have the displeasure of slurring that ancient name of the intoxicated harpy again, would have thought autassassinophilia would corrupt him sooner, request her to mutilate, leave his eye sockets barren with talons and eat his tendons raw . . .
stale contemplations, black bread mold is all-consuming, spores dismantling the desires of witching hour decadences – of course, if anyone was going to wring his neck . . . she would not be his daydream executioner any longer, had drawn joker, cursed their guillotine love with thick rust )
“ you’re alive, how fortunate. ” ( / was there amphetamine replacing his cells? body invigorated with a billion million little knives, yet words caught in a stupor when transverse from the hallucinogenic reaper. she existed as such; the banshee portrait once object to his feverish obsession, but he cannot convince his stimulated eyes to rest within the slivers between seconds to confirm her reality or unreality, stares at the woman inhabitation the desolate hall . . . the two of them stray vermin.
it’s like a blister, the serum fantasy, the evocative refrain of butchery – wanting to kill her – so desperately, so terribly that his jaw ached in tune to intolerable dreams of his inamorata’s quintessence staining the white dress shirt of a discarded past )
“ it would have been disappointing if you had died. ” ( he leans his weight against the hallway’s wall, neglects to endure his observation of the rising water level but counts the thirsty shivs burrowed in the pockets of his trousers – and it’s been too long, truly too long – wants to hold her, wants to destroy her ) “ and not – but it would, and wouldn’t, nevertheless . . . ”
