Weeping woman

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The sense of her falls down upon his body, like leaves to autumn ground. Fractured sensation of jagged moments, discordant roads & cadenced, sketched reaction to loss, to pleasure, to resuscitation, to romance, to business.

Teeth flash behind the intimacy of the Spanish tongue, portraiture, tentative taste, lips, slowly undressed then balanced, brazen and bold. She’s leading him on with her detailed biography, Franco and Geurnica impressing lines of her work upon his blank canvas.
He delves deep.
– They’re green.
– I’m sorry?
– My eyes, they’re green. You seemed unsure.
Flashes imbibe, the Spanish portrait.
– My boyfriend beat me. Ripped at me, tore my soul. Gambled it all away. We had a business partnership that went bad in the recession. He got involved with criminals, with drugs. I followed him, I left my friends when they called me an idiot for that, until there was no one left, just him, not even me left, just him. Now I make revenge. This isn’t about money, it’s about revenge for what he did.

– Family?

– I left my father in Seville, that’s the only thing I regret: that I’m lying to him about what I do now.

He delves deep. And she spreads her wings in unholy covenant, a darkness in ascent because she could start all over again, a darkness in flight over strict Western lands, cold Northern cities, a darkness controlled, fatefully hardened, because she could impart this anger. Paints the immaculate, fiery
sign of breath and flesh. A darkness that’s fragrant, like black incense, like a pagan goddess crucified: this he sees, in the names of love and hate, behind the sympathy of her emerald gaze.
– Now I keep it inside.
– Keep it inside, but don’t forget it.
– So you see I’m a good girl. Just with a story.
– Yes, I can see that.
– Hi, I’m Lydia. What am I doing here? I’m attending the Glasgow third sector awards. My team was nominated for the unsung hero award, for project management of the Revive project. It’s a nationwide charity, I’m the chairperson. The underprivileged east end kids, we nurture them, guide them, teach them that there’s so much more to life than drug dealing and prostitution, there’s education, prospect, potential, university: there’s a way out.
– Admirable. Different from my world.

– And what world might that be?

– Something like the polar opposite. My colleague joined us from the third sector. She’s finding it a pretty difficult contrast. (Lu, that bounteous head of hair ambushes me in furtive impulse, a petite little screw, half Greek cynicism, half Polish, confrontational servitude, painfully tentative ownership of desire and desire to please, the Soviet bomb at the centre of the machine, doesn’t belong, belongs to her boss, doesn’t much need to belong. Fuck me, a pleasant piece of ass, spit on the system, spit on me within the cubicle, prioritization, the elevator exposé, her curls are vipers, she readied herself for the mirror routine.)

– Hey, everyone’s got a part to play, you know? The third sector needs the first to contribute. You could always contribute more of course.

– Of course.


Haunting estates incubated within industrial wasteland, he walks beneath rusted bridges, dwarfed by each grey colossus, cigarette tossed into derelict factory yard, Alsasian bark, and he’s just following orders. Like the militarism of all tomorrow’s parties, orders to march upon the dormant machinery: to hallucinate upon the sleeping steel, subject to a young man’s virginally purist vision of the mind of God. Traces and echoes of that precognitive excitement, the psychedelic, carnivalesque expectant approach to the zone, it was impromptu decks and soundsystems within concrete caverns. We owned the future, we embraced its Israelite circuitry. Now, however, today: the same selfish beauty, the same strange cocktail of the carnival and death, but individuated, classist, bourgeois, 21st century.

– they shouldn’t be here, they don’t integrate, they need to integrate or leave. We all know who I mean: Let’s give them a name. Fucking gypsies. Can’t stand those thieving gypsy criminals. They’re animals.
She offers no story, apart from affection, devotion. Plays the full youth of herself against his cock.

– I no drink, no take drugs. Only water, only smoke. I speak English good, no?

Fullsome, and ripe. Such a vibrant thing, look closer and she’s almost boyishly sunkissed, like you recognize her brother-self, idling the streets of Madrid, hussling the marketplace. Wheat blonde, tanned asphyxiation, prick tease, relax baby, she understands how to serve, she was born to serve.

And on her knees, gagging, reflecting the roughness of her master’s body, the reality of willing, voluptuous meat, of her perfectly predestined forms of use. Sexy.

– You want?
– Yes, i want.
The inner sanctum of the Empress. Victoria secret thong, rich, cognac-amber aura. The scent of Givenchy, kiss crossed with golden lattice and scarlet lace of Austrian jewelers. The Viennese mistress welcomes his return, descends the stair to him, enumerating her chromatic approach like a Schoenberg fugue, like a Mahler imprint.

She’s in the drawing room, turns from him, slowly loses her Dolce and Gabbana.

He approaches from behind, and she bows, revealing it all for him.

The Empress tasks her paige with the satisfaction prerogative. Appetite wetted, constructions of smoke and gnosis, a main course that is raw, bloodied, cybernetically perfect, followed by the rich dessert, Asiatic ivory, hand fed. Twisting lip with joy. Tense it, hold it, hit it, study it.

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