【 & there is a mild hesitation that engulfed
the Scarlet Queen wholly.
For there on his skin is the
stench of the chapel; & she is anything
but holy. Yet she smiled a sweet smile… 】
❝I am pleased & blessed, stranger.
It really is a rarity to gain the fascination
of someone as…unique as…❞
✝ — and there of her caparison, she’d wore
of millions on each masquerade, in ballrooms
desolate of danseurs and danseuses; a counterfeit
possession she’d claim a requisition of her
own — a colour, the anthesis in efflorescent
light… yet, each abysmal veneer his sepia
saw through was clustered in but painted
red — her white rose-garden but a canvas to
amassing souls she stained such with — ✝
“Blood-red, big-headed Queen, bombastic,
brazen beast — such fascination is but a
figment of the true mysticism thee conjures.”
— J.S. Bach - Passacaglia and Fugue, in C minor BWV 582 —
her brass in yellow gold; saffron-sense saturation but sumptuous, sensational this splendid statuesque stateliness now stood — her keenness contiguous sunken beneath smoothness were each quintet’s squad-segment aware; her heat » O, but lest she smouldered to his fingers, her heat arise of copper-gilding gingerbreads of fandangle-sizing embellishments, of fleurs-de-lis on every key — yet here she laid in her dormancy still, as such did he, when spurs in limbs graceful in proportion saw her surface; Kisaki found her in his eroticism indiscernible, surreptitiously and screened when sequestered hidden beneath the shallow bloodlessness – that of spread a tale of snow-white, unsubstantial winter’s flakes un to him. Minacious fingers had clutched on to her there; of her mellow aurulent and caramel carcass, her curve cut out of timbers told.
He’d breathe upon her easy… follicles, his hair dithering, these were the shivering isles ‘pon which he staggered; palter would he furnished of his flesh abraded – bare, dishabille of habiliments but sparse his caparisons were; in form his velveteen gown seldom seen in sufficient days. Loose of the shoulders, threadbare and barren the rendezvous between a man and his machine proceeded but in guileful quiescence. He’d draw her in, digest her, fathom in to dearth the lungs of desiccation her concupiscent, erogenous salaciousness and swallow here her sudden nectar. Exile, but one threatened insinuate and chime through the cathedral’s halls, in their contemptible thoughts inharmonious to her concern; she exists of correspondence of his granting antithesis; symmetry she followed in arborescent sighs and ultimates of many of his forms. He was versed in her cogitating meditation, he knew of her obstinate and perennial love for him. It was of this, ‘I remember the little things you’ve done for me,’ when she sang for him in inflexible affairs the symphonies she was made love to with – the Renaissance she saw, Romanticism had she sighed… and here the Baroque in classic catastrophes was in woe and wretchedness etched on to her carcass, and effulgent of her reflection in her colossal pipes sat he; the scarlet show of sumptuousness, an incarnation of the one, he whom garnished now her sweet tempting tantalization in aphrodisiac, impassioned amour.
‘Ravenous, avaricious, gluttonous me’ — his rapacious, white universe came in the quadrangle of ecliptic meridians visible to outward sappers; a flash in bearing translucent light within these, such galaxies void within an almond shape of bistre kernels, riveted in assiduous and sedulous an anchored fixation on such revelation of a gospel one of prophecies. He, was of auspicious divination; of an imminent omen he had yet found himself of unsuccessful rate within to have foreseen. He, as beast he came bequeathed of ecclesiastical, sacrosanct divineness in superintendent forthcoming, as his harbinger to bereavement of his ante-mortem quietus to defeat. He, built as the indisputable altiloquence, and floridness of the authentic morning star — his lover of the light; whereupon praetorian flesh drawn in soft anaemia and wildest of deep velvet, and adequately and satisfactorily his muscle-mass had flourished, existing within prodigious abundance, would seize him of cognitive his understanding and consciousness, would seize him of his thinking principle. Burgeoning, embryonic cerise colouration grew in a carmine combustion of inflamed, erubescent carnations (his very favourite flower), those that spread their budding athwart his flammulated breast inspired of such golden splendour nourishing each globular an amber orb; and he was red, and evanescent in this flame, with lissome appendages accomplishing success in exterminating this incalescent button-down to a half-way, catastrophic culmination of undone fabrics in hurriedness. Susceptible silhouette struck across an affluent, ample leather sofa, midnight’s looseness and licentiousness rushing toward the heart — and toward the hearth blistering of his abdomen, and far below.
charlatan, within each of mine ancient bones smoulders such an anguished enterprise of appetite delighting in such immaculate a vision — such ignites it swelling a heart, and soon swelling a prick thriving in expansion of mine covetousness, ardour, aspiration...”
– venez ici, prenez-moi.”
– ou... est-ce que vous attendez..?”
Selfsame susceptible silhouette then rose in upward thrust of trembling thighs, and self-conscious his steps were in their propulsive, proceeding pace toward a settlement at current he knew was but the bosom — the embrace that held the seraph clutched within its chambers garnished with an ornamental art; the architectural, herculean posture, his oriental, breathing artwork, his Seraphiel, his Kamijou.
Scandalous, servile scene — and not alone were these of such assiduous, indefatigable and clangourous tones with which this cellular mechanism shrilled onward in an vociferous volume when acknowledging the intelligence of its collected message through series of photo-electronic sequences; sepulchral, cavernous throughout the monstrosities by which this chasmal cathedral was built on commodious, capacious admeasurements of ground. Crepuscular configurations became the embodiment of one relinquished, despaired grimace in diminishing subsidence when materializing to his ablatitious lips; not alone was each slanting, scrutinizing gaze, indispensably deep-slit within each of hundred faceless expressions upturned within the sermonizer his swimming direction – an argumentation to augment upon the evangelist’s serrated cheekbones an incarnadine rubric fusion of suffused colours. No, his most trivial of predicaments were these subjective, capricious looks given to him in midst of his ongoing sermon. What had for these scarlet smidgens to approximate his profile where firstly would they fountain at each column of the neck, was an image he had remained abstained of — for centuries. The maternal formation of a woman, shapely, curvaceous, a picture drawn to him virginally fresh of a woman very bare, and very fruitful caught in sights of first impressions. He had not known a touch to their silk-like skin, a grasp upon their birthing hips, or the resilient springiness in the animation of their dynamic breasts, exposed like such. Asphyxiation, suffocation — such were in order.
unknown: “ – madam, I — you appear with great blessing to be possessed through sublime skin; perchance akin to peaches, or the auxiliaries of many other juicy fruits...”
unknown: “ – a possibility of apricots...”
unknown: “ – ...or another of contempt abasement. May I add an informative directive on mine ingeniously deteriorating settle of selective intellect; I — am adequately unfamiliar of thine essence, womanhood — mine eyes must be of clandestine deception.”
Ostensible, misanthropical, overwrought gaze — a bisque coterie of elliptical marbles bedevilled through such atrocious a display; these that would crease where less than sympathetic, cleric sanguine cruor boiled such seething spleen. Each an eye – in simple-sought a mental make-up of derivative thesaurus – slinked across this stalwart apparition, and of an arrangement of muscle, vigour, flesh and bone — a body he was so familiar with as so would it have come of his hands, and he could not look aside. ‘God-awful, scandalous soul’, lips could closely spit with tongue thereafter sulking of the parchedness of desiccated flowery fields of flushed labium-like alignments of the mouth. A vulgar display of power drawing perchance a fictitious illusion, one meant to stir him as was it but the wee of a miniscule chance this could have been sent through an accidental misinterpretation of a contact written within cellular-device. Taecyeon, Belial, of least a subtle and a controversial heir to his envisioned legion of angels; all which he would stir were the atrocious phalanges compressing their strength around an uninvolved golden iPhone, all which he would rouse were cartilages heaving knuckles to abridge the poor accessory and near could drive its screen to snap from bearing such relentless pressure. Nostrils flared ruthlessly wide as he swept aside the distressing image from his view, the sofa’s leather cradling his thighs creaking in discomforting cadency.
mutt: “ - insufferable snob; I need not the announcement of your awakening… pillar.”
mutt: “ – this carcass I have gifted you with, you use it to mine disgrace.”
mutt: “ – savage hound, what believe you, that I need to have myself remember what I crafted?”
Another writing session taken farther than normal; He wouldn’t always sit down to play the tune, but today was an exception. He stayed quiet, but the spirit’s fingers plucked away at his guitar’s strings, letting the music carry along the tide of the waves that crashed up against the shore of the beach; all the while his feet swirling within the clear blue water.
These were agnate resonances of sonorousness; a song sung in softness, however unvoiced as in parallel equidistant an instrument ‘stead susurrated to him here — even analogous and akin to each concession of a halcyon hymn with which the waters spoke to him in its siren call upon; an ever-summoning hosanna so prepossessing, so unpresumptuous. The wild blue yonder; be it enigmatical, and incomprehensible in its symbolic sound, rising him above the undercurrents of its bosom grand — pushing him out of the sea; a monumental, dishabille set of thighs forthcoming of its aqueous, liquidated forms, carrying but his solemn silhouette out of its serous, seizing sustain.
A prejudice — a predilection which he savoured on his saline,
salt-like tongue since æons long, could soothe to him these lullabies
in but the semblance of a boy; intense, and evermore of all the waters.
“Splendid evening, isn’t it?” The voice is flat and rich, with a hint of huskiness; matching the face it comes out of. Curvaceous lips part to separate each syllable, over accentuating them with a slight purr. The dragon speaks.
He turns small body towards you, the movement strangely lithe. Dark eyes observe you with a wise selfishness you’ve likely never seen before. Hands curl together pensively, before his chest; a step forward initiates the conversation.
“So glad you agree. Care to join me?”
He betides with a presage of prognostication, conscientious to nary an event occurred of eras present and forthcoming — a fascinating refinement he of nevermore a repetitious form came with such challenging, and converging an approach. His soaring, semestral silhouette swayed on such presumptuous, overweening upsurges of whereupon a keenness for the voice he’d grown to adore in simple seconds mounted prosperously; with but the slightest little efforts curling round the absolutist’s attention. It harboured such conceitedness – a familiar fashion of an arrogance donned upon him daily.
“A man is but a man within the presence of another. By all means, humour me.”
So oft and awry from the times of current gesticulation was his beloved, that within moments such as these where the deity proved his buoyancy in fluent crisply-tailored speech alike those that had reigned of popular sovereignty so long in decades past, the angel of golden light was reminded of nothing more than a rose so red and vivid. One that poets would slave in affairs of attempting masterful poetry to elevate such a stunning image. None, however, would nor could as could he himself. Brilliant creation set upon the earth’s surface, Kamijo was the chosen one to take this lovely heart and caress it to heights of unparalleled devotion and love. Tadashi was his beloved, and pampering the second half of his heart needed no reminder. “Thine angel, is as delicate as the grazing lamb whom loves the warmth of a certain scarlet persona.”
With eyes blazing their unnatural allure in shades of everlasting azure did the fallen beauty observe; shift about upon the futon so that the wooden tray could be moved in closer to both their physical bodies. “Remembered, yes, though you hold the tone of one brought by surprise. Have I mounted upon your breast the element of surprise on this morn?” A unessential inquiry though such words were of the norm between this set of lovers. The conversation mattered not, only the emotions that flowed between. “Juices first, or do you contend to begin with an edible?” Picturesque fingers skimmed about the surfaces of plates and silverware, as if to demonstrate what was offered on todays breakfast surprise.
“Ah! — mine lamb, you are precise… propitious and passionate lamb, he so perennial when prolonged his persistent presence perseveres at mine portion of physique. Smother thee upon mine wreathing, scarlet breast I shall, and paint shall I upon thine agile lips a portrait drawn of but a hundred kisses rich..,” weightless, diaphanous hand; shall it rest upon the architecture of supporting shoulder and trace beyond the administering clutch of an embrace of light polyester round the flesh a climbing spine. His erogenous, impassioned fingertips riveting round a mercurial pattern reminiscent of avian descent. He could still, withal, marvel and revere so over these wings illustrative within eidolon mirages yonder of authenticity’s perception of beliefs; and yearned he crease each feather woebegone, he’d stir their legatee — an angel long nomadic — as if he’d carry still these phantom beacons to their engineer whose vision roused of an overwrought illusion, to colours enthralling of a captivating amber, auburn, and all adornments of such precious auric stones and priceless gold.
His touch upon Kamijo’s back stood still, yet pressed each aching bone within a force of such relentless passion, “Mine oblivial mind ceases to perhaps embrace each forward lapse toward this date in time,” spare phalanges, slenderized, reached ahead within a fruitful bowl and clutched to diversified a colourful display of grapes and berries harmonious of affluent choice. Each and all went separate ways; few within the throat of he who was of genesis, and few between the lips of his everlasting love.
For once, it’s impossible to figure out what one is speaking about. Missing pieces were scattered and has much as she was trying to pick them up by the second. They nearly drop out of her grasp, they float away and suddenly it’s merely a challenge. Only to stop at where she started once again. Yet he speaks the way she wanted others to speak, with a mindset that’s indescribable and memorizing. The alignment of her spine, felt a shiver that runs down the center of her back within the words that spill into the air and trails out towards her direction for her ears to hear only. No other presence was roaming around them both.
Naeun thinks about it then, time. Is something appreciated to a certain level. Where as we never figure out when time will stop for all of us individually. Some would consider it just numbers ticking by the second, another day has been lost. Seconds form into minutes and suddenly his perspective of it was quite interesting. Time was the reason why all that she finally wanted to accomplish during the day was finally happening, it controlled her. Thankfully.
She breaks back into the reality, the coolness of the water splashes her porcelain skin and she continues to walk along the grains of sand underneath her feet. The sun was still around, the weather is breathtaking. Her presence was slowly fading away, due to how silence was taking her conscious. The female didn’t mean to do so. If anything, she was quite engrossed by the way he was speaking to her. Even if it wasn’t directly towards the young girl’s direction and only she was peering over at him.
"Yet time is something that awakens us when needed, or so most would say." Finally taking her own time to give a proper response. Her head bobs up and down twice into a curt nod, crouching down to let her fingertips touch the top of the water. Eyeing her hazy reflection, just once. It’s cold, she muses silently but again she agrees with him, "Indeed it is. It’s nice to see someone appreciate this day, the weather and every little thing around it overall."
His lips would be putrid were he not eclipsed beneath the masquerading coruscation of the sunlight, miscreant underneath a suffocating, putrescent carrion of each a million relics, of the stardust out of which he’d come risen. Each socket where within withheld came complex golden labyrinths connecting each of elliptical galaxies to clusters and to nebulas untold of, could ooze of an abysmal crevasse abstained of wisdom and his brilliancy — and crack with its toxicants each remnant of his skull held together through a sentiment he would, nor could, shed. But alas, no; time laid at his feet, and indiscriminately would it in continuance flourish round his ankles and keep him of the evanescence of the sea, and its extravagant resourcefulness of a skill through which it could swallow — all living, contemporary entities subsisting alone when manipulated within the clutch of time. He was none of such, none but an abstractive, unsubstantial hallucination cradled in the enigmatic, conjectural ideal of an existence… as if he were the concept time itself, which kept no hold of him.
And so, when bereft of time, then he — was beautiful, and prepossessing even the magnetic force-field with which the water embraced him round everlastingly long legs, refused the water of release when alone he belonged within the world and all its natural catastrophes, calamities, and cataclysms brought unto it, after creating each its components in unheeding, discourteous indifference; blind to all its consequences. He would grow within the meadow’s grasslands and harmonize among each the flowers.
“Most would speak of it as such; these so simple… these buried within the earth in time — it takes less a mensuration of one a century, how blissful, such grace I aid them with in recessing to the excrements of dirt when time captures their blessed souls..,” spilled in a breath rustling the forest beyond, but he was unwavering, “Appreciation comes alone in its purest of forms…”
And as the sea kisses each his feet again, beckoning of him his threadbare repossession and reoccurrence, so dishabille in the shadow of a lovely day with its crisp and blighting draughts licking each an exposed notch of chiselled, bloodless flesh, passed he upon his company an illuminating, ornamented gaze so sincere, that one so simple found still a catch of paradisiacal inheritance of saint-like light to enkindle faithfulness to each corner of this planet known, in the split of time.
The smarter you get the less you speak
"Yes, sir. I am addressing you."
The smile that found its way onto the male’s face after responding to Xavier’s terribly simple query was pretty unnerving, but only because there was something unnecessary about it. It was similar to the smugness that he came across when dealing with any member of his colleague pool; knowing various stuff about their respective fields was something each of his college friends were exceptionally good with, but their displays of knowledge rarely came without some air of superiority—one that made it unbearable to deal with them after a while. This was almost the exact feel he’d had gotten from this Italian-speaking bookstore customer. It was kindly presumptuous to make such questions and comments in the language of Venice and the country that housed it just because Xavier had mentioned it. It wouldn’t have been difficult for someone more on edge to claim the male had insulted him in the foreign tongue after performing an act of battery.
Luckily, Xavier had spent a reasonable fraction of three days, which was much more time than the usual plane ride and a little time during connections, looking over the language again. It would be his second time in the nation of Italy and, thus, the second time he spent studying as much of Italian as possible. Sure, there was the invaluable resource called a concierge and/or translator at whatever lodging he ended up at, but the job he had called for little outside involvement.
"Not to sound pompous, but I’ve become a bit of a self-sufficient trip advisor. So, there isn’t a need for one and, well, I don’t think they’d be able to help me decide between these novels anymore than you could."
A chuckle parted Xavier’s lips as the mention of reading choices closed out his statement. It made no sense to him: people would end up paying money for someone to plan a trip for them, but research was part of the fun when it came to travel. There was a certain intimacy that came with the knowledge of a place; having certain pieces of information regarding the general location or little facts tied to its history made the experience all the more thrilling. By default, there would be more to look forward to and more to look into when there. Ignoring the very thing that typically tied him to these trips (also known as The Library), Xavier always found the planning part as the foundation. Even if there was a need to indulge for the sake of artifact recovery, knowing the design of a city or a few odd things about a rainforest could prove essential.
As the patron started to list a few dishes that the archivist might encounter in Venice, Xavier’s gaze wandered back to the cover of either book. He’d just have to go for both regardless of the unsettling factor that came with reading two crime novels—and certainly when one had Capote’s workmanship behind it. There wasn’t that much of a problem in reality. Nightmares fueled by anything rarely came to him after witnessing that almost human sacrifice in the jungles of Indonesia, but there was still a point of having his mind in the right place. Landing in Venice with thoughts of murder and fear was the last thing that he needed. …unless, of course, they would be enough to fuel him through the night without the aid of any caffeine. It might’ve been worth it in that case.
Noting that his present thoughts had taken the oddest of turns, the librarian turned his attention back to the patron. The subject of planes was brought up, but in an assumedly negative manner. Flight was never a bothersome thing from Xavier’s standpoint. Actually, being so high in the air and remaining humanly functional was nothing short of amazing. Heights thrilled him and the view from thousands of feet above awestruck him, "Well, they aren’t for everyone, but aircraft does cut off quite a bit of time trip-wise."
Unnecessary, in surmised presumption, the self-proclaimed philanthropist came in such margins of expendable and extrinsic nature — extraneous seemliness of an addressed conduct he carried as plenteous assessments. Majorities of his prodigious carriage were of deemed un-necessities, and beneath such repellent smile slithered grim and grisly satisfaction he could gather of monopolizing so another’s riveting expression to an excavation sunken within each clover — left and right — of the mouth. He was peripheral, unnecessary to allotments of the preponderance of substructures assembled in each a form sewn through flesh and bone, and now less inspired or augmented to the specifications shared through the subject of the matter. The absolutist would become insufferable after such considerable spans stretched across of time, excruciating with each a canvassed admission of inquiries given him nourishing his estimate of self-importance.
A credible conclusion to this applicable hour inheres perchance the commodious and overflowing conditioning that tingled still upon his finger’s summits; counselling him of the substantialities that a probable one percent of this world’s order maintained itself in authentic and legitimate regimen — following such faultlessness in perfection where still it were given its credence to within minds convinced of the sacrosanct and sacramental in existence. His lips were now a flower in transcending bloom; stripping the expression of a tenderness no longer circumstantial, but baring its exposure to undoubted eternities in which he would find an everlasting exodus of evanescent existences on spiritual belief.
He exceeded within this sheer emphasis on his lineage — a bequeathed origin among the three a mortal ancestry decided as his excellency’s fate: the insufferable Italian, a familiar’s favourite he’d shed a shining light upon at given opportunities.
The length in which his smile enlarged came cunningly, ingeniously, and stretched a million great deals wider in advance of casted glances upon one of the novel’s backside, “The carrying of such narratives requires seldom the proficient suggestion of another, however — were one with wish of breathing a provincial outland fully, I think it best to proceed unpolished, uninformed. An engrossment of the mind’s reflecting intimacies come through experiencing, living, fleeting moments stuck to us..,” ‘none is there to inform us apropos of our magisterial desires, for ravenousness, for the rapaciousness with which we sink within kaleidoscopic illustrations, those drawn to each our own accord’, and he’d been there… and still lingered there the poetic taste of languages and recipes upon his inbred tongue; each distinguished representative of from when he travelled of Venice to and fro, still circled ‘round his globular head, alike sweet, sound buzzing’s a bee he cared to let to nature’s hands, its hum a comforting feat on which he’d reminisce for eras forthcoming hereafter.
In sequences, in flashbacks of nostalgia aviated he across few hundred years begone of him; within pasts forlorn, each degree in mass the bookstore came consisted of navigated itself within a numberless supernova bereft of ascertainable matter. What blessing to depart unseen, to gaze upon a cosmic agglomeration of stars — clustered all about the principle he’d give no other name to, but to name it home, when his God-given aural sight caught image of a picture clearly painted of the Vatican several miles from the aforementioned Venice.
“Correct, you were — a decision spread before us, ungraspable to others, unfathomable… mine assistance but flickers within the marbles of thine melanoid sight, it’d be swept aside and were to be replaced to visions larger within thine mind..,” he spoke of absolution where at present had he now relinquished on this insufferable self; such blessing came in this obfuscating gloom enhanced when adumbrating his left orb, its glass body but a vessel to what wondrous sight conflicted him and took him from each realistically-proclaimed particle of genuineness, requiring no aircraft to take flight upon each memorable remembrance to let him soar upon a road his feet dug transparent prints in more oft than his physical body would carry him there with.
With the inquisitions of interrogation, each of such propositions had answered so itself — as repartee of response granted through an inauspicious, haunting voice re-claimed in an embodiment of lies, deceitfulness, and distortion. However still here he heard each ambrosial, resonating signal of an angel far; reminding him the strings his heart were pulled with, “ — fine is still the man a touch of soul too far of revelations.”