Original Work: Utterly Senseless
Title: Utterly Senseless
Author: woodra
Rating: PG-27
Disclaimer: Mine, all mine.
Author Notes: I killed my superego and ate it for my breakfast.
The author had forgotten the most important line. In the middle of the maelstrom... A long way from the beginning to an irreversible end; even automatic writing wouldn't have done. She knew that. Her ears filled with riffs of depressive-aggressive music, eyes drinking on the sight of the cute boy with chiselled cheekbones - she was the epitome of loose interest of both worlds. In her oblique occupation breathed the duality of the obverse and the reverse. She didn't know, of course.
What was the biggest contradiction of the world, as she knew it? The paradox of the small and the dangerous, perhaps. The small, the peccant, the meaningless - all coming to form death. Wherefore? Nevermind that Death herself was horrified at the prospect of such personification.
Style. It was all that she begged for but instead she was given pettiness. Ignoble and whimpering, the only power of which was quantity. Rendered powerless, Death was conquered - an ultimate victory of hers turning to be pyrrhic in nature. Long gone were times of the red mask and the black cloak, rotting in caves of forgotten lands, never to return. And so shed were tears, and spilled was blood, and wailed were screams of anguish and despair, as Death lay at the bottom of the biggest of caverns, besmeared with faeces of her own spiritual indigestion - a crimson headpiece over the tangled shock of her albino hair. Stark nakedness covered the rest of her body.
In the glimmering light of the ink-lined room with crooked walls and straight gobelins of the house at the very end of the world flew the most important line with cackles of scornful glee. The heavy ash tree desk, obscure, forgotten too, stood in the farthest corner of the room. A chinese reading lamp with an elaborate abat-jour of the golden creamy colour adorned its surface, its dreams of proud solitude disturbed by moth arrays. Crowded, crowded it was in the room. Soon there was to be no air to breath for those locked inside. The frosted glass panels on the narrow windows added to the panic, hissing, "Run, run, run!" She was smirking, the author, trapped in the middle of the grimacing sentence, the quill clutched between her blotted fingers quivering. In the middle of the maelstrom... the irises like mountain dew...
Atop the wooden blocks lay eihwaz.
Hark, the silent trumpets heralded, the time has come. Carmina Burana, Carmina Burana - a carmine silk stripe, miles long and kilometres wide, purled around the slender body. There went the graceful curve of the fragile wrist as it cusped for the murmur of a milky rivulet. One... two/three, and fourthest fives, along with the white marble foundation and the sanguine lipstick, all slithering and smiling. Was it centuries or aeons? From the crystal ceiling came the twinkling of the scintillating stars long dead and gone, as she padded quietly. Feather-light was her touch squashing the cerberide's skulls - not a whimper, not a simulacra of a whimper, as the maiden snow was raped.
The phone in the other end of the room rang with an unheard-of ferocity. The books and withered flowers looked down upon the culprit of disturbance; there was a clear scent of disapproval. She sat clutching her left temple, as her knuckles tried to quell the sudden pain of worms eating at the hemisphere of her logic and conscience. How horrible, how horrible. The black messiah with a banjo and a white one on the back-vocals charged the air with sounds of techno madness, over which the phone shook in a frantic fit of melancholy. It rang until the incorporeal teeth of yellow rats gnawed through the dusty chords and killed the nostalgic apparatus. The author was breathless for a minute, before moving the pinkie full of grace. A strand of hair fell on her teared eyes, where webs of mascara decoyed the spiders of apathy and misintention.
Of fascination of fascism was the story to be told, but the sentence appeared broken. The irises and dews and maelstroms of Norway, light-years away from home, somewhere in the land of the forgotten. So elegant was her cigarette holder she couldn't resist the smile.
The ghostly apparition of yearning beauty waltzed in a sensual rhythm in front of the author. "What has been is what will be," Ecclesiastes sang, irreconcilably sad, a black and silver tie around his slender neck so tempting and seducing. The storming skies, one above another and the third and fourth, swung back and forth in the accompaniment for his sullen song. Young Ecclesiastes the Jaded, he was the man who japed, the prototypal jester with lips sewn to smile forever. He was thrown aside into the wall breaking his spinal bone in the process, as the Queen entered. Her lipstick red lips slid apart, revealing the tip of her razor-sharp tongue that ran over the jaw line of the Author. "Responsibility entails punishment," Death whispered, before devouring the Author's mouth with hers, lush and juicy. Drip-and-drip-and-drippity-drip went drops of blood. An unearthly coldness entered her body, and the air in her lungs turned into shards of cut glass, spiky, sharp and killing.
Dead was the Author. Dead as a deadly deadder in a deading deado. The banjoman disappeared leading the moth arrays behind, trumpeting the coming of the new era, but was it really new? Nothing is under this sun.
Vanity of vanities, I say, oh vanity of vanities for all is vanity.
In the middle of the ecumenical maelstrom rose She with irises like mountain dew and breathing like northern plague; inside her glowed the dust of Death.
Author: woodra
Rating: PG-27
Disclaimer: Mine, all mine.
Author Notes: I killed my superego and ate it for my breakfast.
The author had forgotten the most important line. In the middle of the maelstrom... A long way from the beginning to an irreversible end; even automatic writing wouldn't have done. She knew that. Her ears filled with riffs of depressive-aggressive music, eyes drinking on the sight of the cute boy with chiselled cheekbones - she was the epitome of loose interest of both worlds. In her oblique occupation breathed the duality of the obverse and the reverse. She didn't know, of course.
What was the biggest contradiction of the world, as she knew it? The paradox of the small and the dangerous, perhaps. The small, the peccant, the meaningless - all coming to form death. Wherefore? Nevermind that Death herself was horrified at the prospect of such personification.
Style. It was all that she begged for but instead she was given pettiness. Ignoble and whimpering, the only power of which was quantity. Rendered powerless, Death was conquered - an ultimate victory of hers turning to be pyrrhic in nature. Long gone were times of the red mask and the black cloak, rotting in caves of forgotten lands, never to return. And so shed were tears, and spilled was blood, and wailed were screams of anguish and despair, as Death lay at the bottom of the biggest of caverns, besmeared with faeces of her own spiritual indigestion - a crimson headpiece over the tangled shock of her albino hair. Stark nakedness covered the rest of her body.
In the glimmering light of the ink-lined room with crooked walls and straight gobelins of the house at the very end of the world flew the most important line with cackles of scornful glee. The heavy ash tree desk, obscure, forgotten too, stood in the farthest corner of the room. A chinese reading lamp with an elaborate abat-jour of the golden creamy colour adorned its surface, its dreams of proud solitude disturbed by moth arrays. Crowded, crowded it was in the room. Soon there was to be no air to breath for those locked inside. The frosted glass panels on the narrow windows added to the panic, hissing, "Run, run, run!" She was smirking, the author, trapped in the middle of the grimacing sentence, the quill clutched between her blotted fingers quivering. In the middle of the maelstrom... the irises like mountain dew...
Atop the wooden blocks lay eihwaz.
Hark, the silent trumpets heralded, the time has come. Carmina Burana, Carmina Burana - a carmine silk stripe, miles long and kilometres wide, purled around the slender body. There went the graceful curve of the fragile wrist as it cusped for the murmur of a milky rivulet. One... two/three, and fourthest fives, along with the white marble foundation and the sanguine lipstick, all slithering and smiling. Was it centuries or aeons? From the crystal ceiling came the twinkling of the scintillating stars long dead and gone, as she padded quietly. Feather-light was her touch squashing the cerberide's skulls - not a whimper, not a simulacra of a whimper, as the maiden snow was raped.
The phone in the other end of the room rang with an unheard-of ferocity. The books and withered flowers looked down upon the culprit of disturbance; there was a clear scent of disapproval. She sat clutching her left temple, as her knuckles tried to quell the sudden pain of worms eating at the hemisphere of her logic and conscience. How horrible, how horrible. The black messiah with a banjo and a white one on the back-vocals charged the air with sounds of techno madness, over which the phone shook in a frantic fit of melancholy. It rang until the incorporeal teeth of yellow rats gnawed through the dusty chords and killed the nostalgic apparatus. The author was breathless for a minute, before moving the pinkie full of grace. A strand of hair fell on her teared eyes, where webs of mascara decoyed the spiders of apathy and misintention.
Of fascination of fascism was the story to be told, but the sentence appeared broken. The irises and dews and maelstroms of Norway, light-years away from home, somewhere in the land of the forgotten. So elegant was her cigarette holder she couldn't resist the smile.
The ghostly apparition of yearning beauty waltzed in a sensual rhythm in front of the author. "What has been is what will be," Ecclesiastes sang, irreconcilably sad, a black and silver tie around his slender neck so tempting and seducing. The storming skies, one above another and the third and fourth, swung back and forth in the accompaniment for his sullen song. Young Ecclesiastes the Jaded, he was the man who japed, the prototypal jester with lips sewn to smile forever. He was thrown aside into the wall breaking his spinal bone in the process, as the Queen entered. Her lipstick red lips slid apart, revealing the tip of her razor-sharp tongue that ran over the jaw line of the Author. "Responsibility entails punishment," Death whispered, before devouring the Author's mouth with hers, lush and juicy. Drip-and-drip-and-drippity-drip went drops of blood. An unearthly coldness entered her body, and the air in her lungs turned into shards of cut glass, spiky, sharp and killing.
Dead was the Author. Dead as a deadly deadder in a deading deado. The banjoman disappeared leading the moth arrays behind, trumpeting the coming of the new era, but was it really new? Nothing is under this sun.
Vanity of vanities, I say, oh vanity of vanities for all is vanity.
In the middle of the ecumenical maelstrom rose She with irises like mountain dew and breathing like northern plague; inside her glowed the dust of Death.