It was green and transparent

After she was done with her travels in dark heaven she continued to sing.  There were emeralds in my eyes.  She wore satin and laughed daily at the boys demanding strange things.  I ought to think more about prayer during these moments of terror and sex.  I’m still waiting to have conscious contact with my higher self.  I’ve committed a love crime.  He saw her and she was profane and beautiful.  She was chaos and her form was bountiful and delighted.  

The wind in her hair and there is her ankle and what she is wearing is flesh colored.  There is vinyl being played.  He looks at her unaware and her secret thoughts are quite treacherous and they are both trembling but it is unclear in whose mind this is taking place.  She rises up and down and there is a bizarre fleeting memory of a carousel and riding atop a fake pony, hand clinging to a golden pole.  

This is just a fairy tale then.  Once upon a time….  Then everyone is in a ballroom again, it always comes back to a ballroom.  And I am merely an observer, I watch and I listen but I cannot truly recognize any of these signs of love and lust and rarely can I differentiate between the two.  Dimly, in the back of my mind I am aware I spent the better part of the last year eating my own heart.  Oh sweet profanities.  I have never been your biggest fan yet somehow now it is all working.  I am in an ancient library and learning so much. 

Her laughter has the unexpected effect of melting my brain.  She wants expensive things and makes demands and judges and it all so exciting it causes explosions in his veins.  Then she’s on the street with a cord in her hand she’s running toward him and he imagines murderous intentions in her mind.  She’s so business-like right beside the bed and imposes a penance for every display of physical affection.  She smiles when she points down and makes demands.  He is humiliated in grand fashion.  

He is constantly on his knees, as is his wont, and she is laughing quite raucously.  She thinks that at some point she had a set of rules which she followed but this is no longer the case.  Outside their window there are strange bright lights in the dark sky and they are both aware of them but only one is afraid.  

Consummation is the correct word I believe.  I still have the mistaken belief I am in control of my actions.  I am barely held together anymore by the contents of that bottle.  He is begging for forgiveness now and she withholds his breathe.  Oh my poor friend, I have had to listen to you for so long and it is no longer in the least bit amusing.  There is something lace on his wrist, perfume on her thigh.  

These glorious emeralds in my eyes.  if you think you are about to truly understand what all this desire has been creating you are badly mistaken.  Finger tips graze against the shoulder while a message is delivered and so much excitement is aroused in the body and his blood all heads in one very specific direction and he wants to be wearing something of hers when it happens and wants to be quite short of breathe.   

He is bathing in red wine.  What a strange baptism that is about to take place.  He rarely lets them truly see him, only what is absolutely necessary.  And yes, but it must be said right now that these arches are truly absolutely heavenly. She sits on the corner of the bed with one leg crossed over the other and she looks like a painting.  What does she make him do?  

Once more this river is only reminding me of another river.  My curtains are red and the sheets on my bed are red too and I often wake up in the fetal position and it takes me a moment to recognize my own bedroom.  I never feel more alone than when someone else…but no, it is best not to finish that particular thought.  

The ground is blessed; and inside where everything feels such exquisite pressure and perfumed by the drudges of everyday, to be underneath would certainly be the purest of pleasures and the sweetest of subjugations.  If there was ever an effigy erected in his honor he would surely want for it to be desecrated.  

This storm enters his thoughts again no matter how many times he succumbs.  And there is a party and wonderful music and oysters and so many flavors and it is all flowing quite liberally.  And then that old thought process, that cursed fantasy impossible to trace, comes back once more and he is over the tongue and down the throat and falling and falling and it is such sweet ecstasy.  

I am lying on a bed and I smell like candy apples and thyme.  My nerves and tendons are exposed and despite all the drugs coursing through my veins my head still feels like it is on fire and if I could I would be screaming.  But there is a stroke of inspiration in my eyes and the doctors are wearing red robes and I believe in another life they designed bizarre instruments for operation on genetic mutants.  There is a band somewhere in the corner playing something which sounds Middle Eastern and the music is quite exciting.  Eventually they replace which was lovingly taken from me (as best they can) and I am raised up on a platform and a mirror placed before me and oh but it is wonderful.  

Still after all this time the initial creation is the most superior.  Despite all the advances and the beauty which was arisen since that time, nothing compares.  Everything in my field of vision is bathed in red and green lights.   

I’m doomed, in the classic sense.