Last Caress


Crowned by spying specks of lumen, the Goddess arose her hips in betray of the corroded melody, satisfied in the tearing of the flesh. She wouldn't have known it, oh no, nevermore, the inebriated impulse of spilling oceans with a twitch of her nose. Her power, though subjected to the delirium of the Moira, could warp the utmost crease of muscular conjecture. Then she would just roll, with a nonchalant frailness, in sand and stream, and find her knees dripping glimmers, reckoning the roughness of the shaped world so a carnation could spring in her chest, a smothered flame, blown by the tremulous whisper of The Guest.

And in the midst of the departure, she would use blistered words as charms in her neck, opening scars and frayed dermis, laced with a hollow yet tinged speech. And indeed, manifold tactile and elongated feelers would lift flimsy like aghast rodents, palpating the coiling redundancy floating aloft. A sole image, that of her human-like fingers gripping the reins and riding the flashing bodies at a marvellous speed, setting ablaze, like a fugitive goblin, the starred and gibbous vault with her Techné.

But the dying Goddess, embroidered in agony, almost blinked her eyes before the phantasm, mocking remnant of The Travelling Star, like waiting for a revelation in saturated gamma rays, a sluggish portray of her divinity. Mother once told me she mounted with a hissing sneer the shoulders of the Northern Lights describing spirals in the firmament with her wrath, feigning to be porcelain-real.

And so it was, that reality had taken over the mellow vagary, spitting a plasticized doll which, with a toxic smile, exhibited her whorish enthrallment in the reeking Mall. It had no place as it was everywhere the same object, the fractal of Superfluous Time. Alas! That would be the last abode of the Goddess, whose fate was reserved to the curiosity of a rascal, ready to mangle her ancient countenance.

And all prototypes of one-legged knights and falsely smitten ballerinas were banished as well from certain slices of gray circumvolution, whilst virulent new puppets populated the infantile mind of the man, made of mud and stone and sallow corn.

In the vision, it is in fact possible to seize a last frame of the idle puddle that binds coordinates and perspectives: the Goddess must be returned to the well, to the trampling wave, to the limp rain. Rather than having this mockery of civilization, Mother said, with a growl.

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