Refractions
A series of short pieces by Clarke Nova
Silver spots boil before his eyes, and his nuts crinkle and
tighten, as he ejaculates out visions of places seen and yet unseen. A long spurt, rents
in time appear, and sand pours through the resultant gap - sand from a far off time when
gods stalked the earth, and demons prayed on the souls of the catholic, writhing in the
purulent guilt, burning in the fires of the inquisition of their own making.
The body twitches, as the flames leap from the burning brands below. It screams, drawing
the raw fire into its lungs, and the very flesh slides from the bones like a well cooked
chicken. Gibbering priests cavort and dance around the obscene spectacle, streams of spit
hanging from their chins. The flames rise higher, consuming the body entirely, until
nothing remains but the husk, like some giant pupae that has grown to become a moth to a
candle such as this.
As the flames die away, they begin to fuck, in a slow steady rhythm, as if to a hymn.
Idiot grins, cocks smeared with candle grease being worked into well lubricated assholes.
The bishop sodomises the novice, in his mind completing a holy union with the lamb of
Christ, not the defiling of a young brother.
Other images flash forth - a wall of ice solidifying from the very air around them.
Closing in, stifling in its cold, brilliant in its clarity like the Throckmorton diamond.
Depth perception goes - how far to the kitty? Not drawing enough grass for the bias to be
effective - no bias is best yet all bowls have one. Grey cats swimming into the arena, fur
bristling at alien suggestions of femininity, of thoughts of strange fish, with hairs in
their armpits, yet little of them have any idea of their own unique odour. A question of
bigotry - who can afford justice? Being left hanging - have to pull their leg, once the
trap is spring. The cock slips out, spurt, spurt, spurt and cum spatters the wall like
obscene finger paintings done by retarded youths.
Third party to the debate of legal freedoms - the blind informing the deaf about the
unwilling - stranded in the electronic wilderness, as pendants swing and connect at random
with audio pickups. The debate rages, before dinner and a party with an extra-terrestrial
editor of some note - b flat, if any notice is to be paid to those paid to inform at
discrete intervals. Scotch sloshes into the glass, topped with a dash of soda - just for
appearances. Just for appearances - a phrase so true it hurts to see it writ.
Fish and fruit salad - all fresh from foreign markets in crowded conditions holy words
printed upon the pages like some defaced gospels churned out, spewed out like the sparks
from a piezo lighter, plays music, the whole carny act. Menstrual blood follows, flows
into the cup in a parody of wine, while the source itself is consumed like Eucharist, tore
out, flung to the assembled faithful. Pubes glisten wetly, matted with strands of cum and
lubafax, around assholes raped willingly, crowns of cocks pushed hard against prostates -
the milk of the almond the chinks call it - cum from being fucked in the ass is supposed
to have plenty magic properties, like a shrunk down head or a ju-ju doll filled with nails
- plenty filthy, plenty strong. Enough strength to weave a dream web, strangle a victim
while he sleeps, with his own cock - the lungs behave like a corpus spongum, and get erect
- band otut, they call it.
28 years ago a cop touches a drag queen's face, and militant gay liberation is born. No
more being stonewalled by politicians - they took the Stonewall to them, a brick at a
time. Dame Margot Howard-Howard elegantly shoots smack into chalk white arms, waiting for
her yellow nigger pusher to return. Bags stuffed with money, bags stuffed with uncut H lie
in walk in closets. An Hispanic junky, alive with lice begs on the Ellis Island ferry,
HIV+, yet with the dream of becoming a singer. Andy squats in his factory, walls lined
with tinfoil, pops speed like it was candy. Candy Darling roams abroad, in a close
approximation of one at least, dispensing platitudes and chocolate in equal proportions.
Her bra is no treasure chest, but does contain things unknown in the realms of mortal man.
It all goes the way of all Flesh, Kiss it goodbye. Ultra Violet lights up the scene,
Daliesque in her depravity, the American flag her bedspread.
All has past - time to move on. Nothing may be true - but is everything permitted? A witty
urbanite keeps one in suspense, as she dispenses her wisdom on all things judicial,
deigning to speak only when she feels she has won the point at the expense of others. All
things come to those who wait, and we have waited oh so very long. Patience is a drug
whose supply is easily exhausted, each fix draining not only the reserves of stock, but
the reserves of the addict....
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