| Playing Dead with Love |
[Jul. 12th, 2009|10:09 pm] |
In a fit of narcissistic insecurity I once faked my own death just to see who would attend the funeral. Made all the necessary arrangements before hand, laid out serious bribe money and cashed in my stash of favors. Had myself a little 'going away party' first. Held up in my Spartan tomb of an apartment. Put on Miles and Strummer and Cash on the shuffle, a summoning of the dead to bring forth their heralds. Drained the last of my bag into one thick wand and lit it. Next, downed a 'Voodoo Cocktail' - the acrid bite of the zombie powder refusing to be diluted by the rum and open flames that lapped off its surface. Immediately fell into a sleepless death, a waking dream of paralysis and relentless consciousness. Neither sense nor thought would abandon me but being unable to pull the strings of my muscles to make the puppet-bones dance, they grew restless, threatening brazenly to riot with madness and panic.
Activated emergency trance procedures.
Disengaged from the moment. Slipped deep beneath the rum, weed and zombie buzz. Consolidated the fragmented voices starting to chatter 'mutiny' in my head. Attaching this nervous chorus to the memory of mud's weight between my hands, I rolled them up into a dense ball of high gravity anxiety. My Will, a child playing in a sandbox that he sits in as if it were the throne of a lotus, quickly flattened the ball with a thought into a terracotta pancake. I then carefully sculpted a Mandala from both imagination and desperation, borrowing freely from symbols understood or merely recalled. I summoned a spark of lightning I remembered as a child (standing in a open field before the approaching storm, waiting, wishing for it to strike through me into the ground... and in doing so, reveal it's terrible secrets of power to my knowledge). The memory flashes out of perpetual dark and strikes the mandala - bull's-eying a pentagram I carved in the center. Blindness flash. Replaced slowly by a perpetually blooming flower of expanding blood colored petals, that burst like flares from the bottomless depths of a gold radiance. The pretty pictures wouldn't distract the brain demons for long... but would keep them busy until my 'resurrection'.
Meanwhile I allowed myself to vaguely register the grind of awareness through time, periodically checking in with eyes that would not shut and ears that seemed to hear better than they ever had before. Hours or minutes passed. Maybe even a day (it's hard to be sure).
My Lover discovered me with neither tear nor scream. Just a sharp draw of breath, a held sigh that evaporated within her chest to release the faintest whisper of a curse through still lips. The light from the open door spilled into the room, forming what I could only imagine was a slanted coffin of illumination around my collapsed body.
Her priorities had her first light a cigarette and do nothing else but stand there watching me. The glare from the hallway rendered her a three dimensional silhouette. Halfway through the smoke she finally addressed me with a dismissive snort- "Really, Jack?"
It wasn't quite the reaction I had pictured. I knew her long enough not to expect much by way of palpable drama, but I thought a small token of grief might have been in order. Years of quality oral sex and dutifully carrying her copious loads of psychic luggage up the spiraling tower of her habits demanded no less.
Closing the door quietly behind her, she stepped inside. A cheek-to-floor view offered a last glance of worn and dirty cowgirl boots approaching before darkness settled back on the room.
My Lover whistled gaily while rummaging around my apartment with impunity.
I followed the trajectory of her clicking heels through my home. First she changed the music shuffle from mournful trumpet wail to a more celebratory Jet Set Samba rhythm. Then off to the bathroom, where she took what sounded like a lengthy shower that ended only when the last drop of hot water had been exhausted. After that the click of heels were replaced by the more muffled fall of bare steps across the floor. They led directly to the kitchen where she discovered the almost full bottle of rum with an approving grunt. Sound of rinse of glass, clink of ice, carbonated hiss of soda bottle opening and mixing with distant glug of a generous shot. Then she drifted off into my bedroom to disappear for...?
The brain demons grew restless in her absence. Not with anxiety but rage. The mandala quickly collapsed into a vortex of escalating anger. Bitch didn't even call the police or nothing. Bitch just gonna walk on through my place without a care in the world with my dead ass just laying there. I could have been murdered and the culprit standing in the next room waiting. But does she care? No. Bitch didn't even check my pulse. For all she knew I was still alive. My worst suspicions had been given proof - she never really cared and her love was nothing more than a mask to wear. Revenge fantasies floated up from the black hole of my thoughts yielding flowers of murder.
'The Bitch' returned. I became aware of her presence by a wavering orange light that swayed across the wall before me and grew steadily brighter. I realized it was a candle, when she placed it on the floor behind my head and I could feel the slight heat it gave off across my scalp. I had a few in my room for purposes of romance and assumed that's where she scored them. Stepping around me she placed down three more - two flanking and one settled in the space before my splayed feet. I caught glimpses of her - not much more than a silhouette through which only the occasional smile could be gleamed. Still I recognized the contours and curves of her body enough to recognize that she was naked beneath the veil of flowing shadows she wore.
She then hovered over me. Her face candle lit into the open leer of a gibbous moon. A terrible smile and bright black eyes floated before me distorting her features into those of a stranger's. With a grace and strength unknown to my experiences with her, she easily lifted me up by the legs and pivoted me slightly by a few degrees. She closed the legs so my 'corpse' laid perpendicular to the door. Then she stretched out my arms out into a cross, laying the hands palm up where she placed the flanking candles to rest. Next she tilted my chin until I was staring up at the ceiling whose depths remained beyond the faint reach of the candle's glow.
"Well" she spoke with a firm whisper and the shock of hearing her voice startled me out of my confusion, "You're no good to me now... but I might as well have a little fun with you before I burn the house down and give you that Viking Funeral you always wanted!"
A lot of shit flashed through my head. Mainly though, through the din of panic and futile efforts at a scream, one question could be clearly heard: 'What the Hell was she talking about?' I had never hinted at, much less requested, a 'Viking funeral'.
The question remained unanswered as I was soon distracted by the spider dance of her fingers working their way through buckle, button and zipper.
"Heh... why it looks like there might be a little life in you yet!" she declared with slight amusement at the discovery of my death-hardened tumesence.
The 'little life' responded eagerly to the attention she lavished upon it. Coaxing the dragon-arrow into a rigid attention, she licked the stab of the beast with lollipop lashes delivering an excruciating heat that seized and incinerated my thoughts. Then slowly she slid the crown of her kiss halfway down the serpent, held it there for a torturous moment and began suckling with frenzied abandon.
I watched sparks freeze dry into stars before the expanding darkness of the ceiling. I fought to find the voice to bark orders or mutter prayers of revelation, I drained my will into the open fingers to force the strength to grab her by the back of the hair with. The failure of these efforts to produce a result stoked the flames of my passion and frustration until the core of my dwindling awareness burst into a funeral pyre.
When the first few tremors signaling the arrival of satisfaction's flood began to ebb down my body, she abruptly stopped and pinched the base of the beast with thumb and forefinger. Napalm Backfire. Helpless, bottled lightning cast into and swallowed by battered waves. A dream genii sucked back down the funnel of the lamp before the first wish can be granted.
"What?" she laughed sarcastically up the belly of my corpse, "You in a hurry or something?"
The breath of dragon fire successfully choked back down the throat, she slowly shifted herself to crouch over and mount the beast. My 'little life', though previously initiated in the splendors of her mysteries, quivered nevertheless against the grind of her dark. One thousand ghost mares burst free from their stables, raced across the grave of flesh, trampling beneath their charging hooves the screams trapped in my head.
A rocking chair sway turned into a furious pendulum swing.
The stars gathered along the ceiling above, sharpened into broken glass and denied even the release of the slightest shudder, I tasted each cut and slash they offered.
The storm was gathering strength. I could sense the folded hand working fierce magick beneath the peeled hood. Animal groans through the bite of her lower lip. Sweat cascaded down her body and pooled beneath the fulcrum of my cadaver. Then with a shivering squeeze of her thighs and a jab of nails into my chest, judgment arrived and in response my 'little life' surrendered his light into the cooling depths of her abyss.
This was followed by a collapse of her body across my own, a shroud of panting exhaustion fallen across my living death.
She laid there for awhile and once she could breath silently again she lifted herself back up, slid herself free from the dwindling beast (now more worm than dragon), and with a flourish of slight of hand produced two coins to appear between splayed fingers.
These she rested across my eyes and then leaned in to whisper in my ear -
"I know you're still in there... I could smell the cheap zombie powder and reek of desperate magick before I walked through the door."
She then lifted herself back up and made her way to the kitchen for a refill on the rum. I heard the light of a cigarette and urgently discovered how bad I needed one of those myself. As if hearing my thought, or at least knowing the rituals that followed our dance, stepped back over to me, pried open my mouth and delivered a nicotine shotgun blast down my lungs.
Then she disappeared again, off into the bathroom for awhile until I heard the cadence of heel against hardwood floor that meant she had put her boots back on.
"Not sure why you did it, Jack. You're too much of an egotistical bastard for suicide (and I meant that in a good way). So I'm guessing this is either some sick game born of your unique mixture of neurosis and imagination... or perhaps simply your way of spicing up our love life. To be honest I don't really care... we made the best of a bad situation, right? I mean, really, who knew death would make you a better lover?" she broke off into a barely restrained chuckle before continuing -
"Just fucking with you... literally I suppose... but anyway, I have to get back to the house to take care of the cats. Looks like you took a pretty light dosage, whether you meant to or not, so you should be back amongst the living by morning. You're going to have a bitch of a hangover but other than that you should be well enough to give me a call."
I heard her blow out the candles. The heel clicks marched away. A door opened. A vague sense of light filtered from around the coins edges.
"Anyway, until then..." soft smack of lips blowing a kiss followed by the inevitable slap of door shutting.
Abandoned and left there mime crucified to the dark. The demons quiet, sleeping where I could not. There I waited impatiently for my inevitable resurrection, anxious to play dead with love again. |
|
|
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
jackbabalon23's journal
pensive
Mogofied!