In The Throes Of Elegance

The contrivance of the Unified Man blemished without a single bruise, wrapped up in snow-flaked green and red sparkling, crackling paper, whispered softly into the cold night whilst my neighbor clamored madly about not wanting to be touched (his woman screeched and clawed at the walls begging him to stop) ; this mortal spoil buzzing frantically with hot carcass, fly-infested breath, begs for a bell to ring a ding ding, or a small choir to solemnly sing—a lulling bye bye about bunny rabbits, old fat men down chimneys, or one of many should-have-been forgotten savior archetypes doing the moonwalk on water.

 

It’s cold outside, I type, as my right hand lifts to my face—betwixt this sentence—and index finger and thumb find the corner of my mouth and wipe away saliva, and providing a hint of my cock perfume. I masturbated terribly and twice before I began this writing.

 

Somebody’s uncle trembles in his sleep next to his shopping cart under a silent bridge while his left big toe peaks from a hole in his crusty sock and wiggles without worry.

 

 

Your other half wakes up to use the restroom undetected to check their mobile phone and see if that person has reached out again. The smile in the mirror under a red night light says affirmative.

 

Children churn in their baby-blue plush blankets and blurt bouncy and bubbly about presents and good behavior.

 

Your X spouse silent as a mouse…in a different house…gliding their lips and fingertips across a still and heavy breathing back…shifting without lack…inhaling the smell of their hair…and you…you are not there.

To no avail, I tried at the compendious cunt, but failed decisively—and like many a time, Satie with Gymnopedies, tiptoes at the throes

of

 

this

 

elegance.

∞