Canto III: The Rhine’s Curse(R)

[abstrect-christ]

The seven inch chefs granton edge

that stalked our bed,

the full crow moons zeno

captured in its myrrhor symphony

dancing at the edge of the

davies gray backboard;

my white knuckles holding its black handle,

eyes absorption of all light void in its

reflection back -- my teeth!

 

Their abradant motions like a Reichsparteitag march,

the shadow of an arm erect, white knuckled

and at a fifty degree angle,

arduous steps toward the left covered by

darkslategrey, creases in the shape of Rachael’s

twenty two inch waist;

her inhales and exhales slow,

apertures shrouded by concealed facsimiles.

 

“Mm-

mm... Jos- Joseph...?”

Her apertures disseminate a zeno’s distillation

and knuckles turned dark red as she

turns to her back and looks up,

grooves near the chefs edge making

the larynx mute and internal jugular vein moil --

an eddy spreading in ease as the dimples

fill with pulmonary tears and my bicep brachii

taut elevates, a handle clammy with

lust rituals vestiges affirms the ingress

of knuckles’ dark red on white canvas;

piercing her left ventricle

pores blotting the inferior vana cava

digitus primus’ nail, fingers creases

pervaded by livers inner ducts and wall.

 

I.

“Hello Mr. Silian would you like an Evian?”

Holding up my half empty bottle;

“No -- but thanks for the offer Joseph;

though I have to say you’re looking like Eric Draven

at the moment.”

“Thanks a lot asshole,”

raising the Evian up to my lips as I smirk;

 

“okay, ready?”

“Shoot.”

David pushes my saddle brown

front desk chair out, sitting on

its black cushion and leaning to the

left where his black satchel rest.

 

“The current production Elizabeth Marie is

playing -- The House of Atreus -- How is it different

from past productions of this Greek classic?”

His black ballpoint Bic taps a notebook

with a paraphrase of his presented question;

 

“well, if we’re talking classically --

there’s more than the main antagonists

up on stage -- and no one is wearing a mask --”

“Always semantics with you,”

he says with a laugh, top of his pen motioning for

me to continue;

“I’ve been working with Baz Lautner,

make up effects veteran from films such as

Hellraiser, Martyrs and The Dark Hours;

I’ve also made alterations to

its presentation -- making it more psychological --

the prologue of The Underworld isn’t a simple pool

and fruit tree; he’s a Gollum among

a river of the damned called “Abyssos.”

“An intriguing endeavor, is it as dark as it sounds like

it’ll be?”

“Darker-”

David leans, hand in satchel,

 

“Okay -- continue --”

eyes focused on a two and a half inch

secondus manus, thin slits like the

thin aquiform from my pores.

 

“Joseph...?”

the needle point incision

below the nail plate

spreading its fungus

besmearing the ash lines

of Davids note pad,

 

“moving on --

express to me what Rachael’s

eyes told you as her heart stopped beating?”

“How- How could you-”

 

“How did you dispose of the body?”

“I, I don’t-

How the fuck do you-

Did you?!”

“Joseph... All I asked

was who the cast is and

how well have they performed so far for you,”

his look counterintuitive;

 

“Oh-”

“Did you play with her blood

and what color was it in the moon light?”

A look of esurience inside his breast.

“Mr. Cilian leave -- now!”

 

II.

One am, diazepam suffusing all

nuances of the weeks ignis fatuus;

charcoal grey heritage field jacket

beset upon the backrest of a black

bar stool, keys clanging as they hit

the obsidian marble top of the

rectangular kitchen island;

 

Rachael’s eyes shut in fathomless incubus;

my black pinstripe wool pants on the

flint sisal carpet, white casual dress shirt

next to it -- this yen!

 

Like a seizer from tetragrammaton itself:

 

An aura of kindling enfolds me,

left then right leg leaving the

black boxers among the days attire,

right hand stroking my half erect

cock, making it harder in my grasp,

oh the ecstasy! Growing in me --

penetrating my heart -- filling my

arteries and veins.

 

“Joseph... Babe,

that you?”

“Yes, Isolde.”

“How was work?”

She asks haggardly while turning to her back

and opening her eyes to reveal grey pupils,

 

“busy,

sorry for not coming home the past few days,”

“s’ kay’, I know you-

What are you doing?”

With agile precision I dash

forward my feet at her knees

over top our darkslategrey blanket,

my left arm acting a linchpin for my

self immolation, hand holding her wrists

tightly against the davies grey backboard;

“what’s wrong with you?”

My smile pious as

my right arm rends the blanket towards

our feet revealing a coarse mons pubis,

 

“Let me go!”

Feeling the wiggling joints in my hand;

emphatically kissing her, tongue

entering, motions to the left

a schism to my own;

“I’m not up for this tonight Jos-”

My right hand striking with asperity

as the circumcised tip of my dick

teases her labia minora

moving up and down it her legs closing in

but converging with my own.

 

“Joseph... what is wrong with you?!

Get off a’ me; get the fuck off a’ me!”

Rachael’s legs curled in missionary position,

letting go of her wrists striking again severing skin

around her lips right edge, epistazo coating the upper edge,

manumit hooks grazing my cheek.

 

Clenching it at the elbow her second lilt

left, then right, a fantoccini led by her forearms;

her legs kicking out in lex talionis being positioned back into

their initial parabol, both arms ceded in the latisimus dorsi’s.

 

“Joseph -- you’re not yourself!”

his labium embrace algid on my lips

my teeth inflaming his bottoms embrace

gashing it’s flaky surface,

his tightening grip arching my back

the elbows binding, extending my deltoid’s, supraspinatus’,

and subscapularis’.

 

“Jos- You’re going to-”

His penis’ ingress like Wilhelmina Murray’s

pallid charlatan inflicting my vagina’s

rugae as its gamuts extent singes its ridges

toward decalescence.

 

“N- No. Stop!”

My legs tussling to obstruct the vacuity in which

Demeter wept, Hades’ ilium tracing my inner thighs

his every thrust exanimate,

“Joseph!”

 

Feeling the calidity rise,

my dicks propensity of twelve and a half inches

expeditious within the cavity’s perforation,

my oscilating reaches its crest,

cum courses her cervix and uterus

summarily allaying my hands grip

laying my masseter upon her left breast

nipple hard and skin frore;

 

I’m whist, room is frigid;

refuse from his eidolon brume

corpulent and miring the sheets

condensing on the contusions and swelling,

Joseph is up and raising his boxers

the warped myrrhors inside his oculars

perched as they discern the final button

of his casual shirt and exit with my reflections:

 

“It’s not him, It’s not him, It’s not him,”

Curled toward the beds centre, arms crossed.

 

III.

“Joseph hasn’t lef’ in weeks!

Jus’ sits -- or stands -- in is’ office

an’ tells er’yone ta’ “fuck off”

or “leave yur’ business un’er the door,”

then tells me ta’ “see what the problem is” whe’ he hears one,

knowumsayin’?!”

“Ok- Okay, I- I understand,”

Curtis’s arm gestures sporadic in his vexation;

“I’ll try to-”

The sound of his fists rigor incurring the halls breadth

accompanied by his galumph shoving Ben

as he mops Ben’s head nodding in disapproval

continuing his consecution.

 

“Look... I forgive you, we need to talk about what happened,”

silence my only rebuttal,

“I know you feel bad about it,

I understand, just not why;

help me understand...”

“Leave!”

“Unlock this door and we can talk about it.”

 

“Just -- go!”

the private handle jiggles fluttering the saddle brown tip

of the chairs arch;

“give me a reason to.

Let me in -- tell me why I should go --”

Rachael’s vain persistence resounding.

“Just-

It’s better this way, trust in me sweetheart.”

Exigency my appeal,

“I know you still care Joseph...

that’s why I want to be let in,

but-

But-”

 

"'E’s still not out?!

Joseph! Come out an’ do yur' job!

Talk ta’ Rachael f’ you have to, jus’-

Jus’ come back!”

Curtis’s elevated pensiveness clarion;

“Joseph... please...”

 

Curtis’s incessant rapping bouncing off

the ninety by one hundred and ten square foot

walls, Rachael’s lachrymal melancholy

a penumbra on the vale between my

chimera and me.

 

“Joseph...”

 

by Jeremy Swyck

(8/28/11)

[tonyv]

Joseph is one seriously disturbed individual, lol. "Sorry for not coming home the past few days ... " Something tells me she's just looking the other way. On to the next part as soon as I get a moment.

 

Tony