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FORMERLY COLORS
亜人— POLYGON PICTURES
— OHM
— OHM
— AITSENA
— AITSENAI HAD BITTER DREAMS LIKE HIM, DARK ECSTACIES SHAPED LIKE HIM; I HAD THE TASTE OF HIM RIPE ON THE TONGUE, ALL SWEET, AND CLOYINGLY PERFUMED; WANTED THAT ELECTRIC TOUCH, ELASTIC GRIP, HEATED BREATH ON THE BACK OF MY NECK, RIDING THE SHAPE OF ME SLOW. I SWEAR HE'S MOVING, NOW, THOSE STRIPES KEEP SHIFTING WITH PREDATOR RHYTHM; HE'S ALL TENSE AND CUT LIKE STONE, MUSCLED TIGHT AS TIGER SHAPES THROUGH JUNGLE FERNS — THE TRAPPINGS OF A REGULAR MAN; AS IF! AN ANGER HANGS DULL IN HIM, TANGLED THORN BLACK AND BRUISED MIDNIGHT. HE REEKS OF VIOLENCE, FOR ALL HIS SILENCE, AND I'M BENDING WEIRD, HE'S MAKING THE LIGHT DO FUNNY THINGS, AND THE WINE IS COMPRESSING ME INTO BITESIZED PIECES SUITED FOR FANGS.
MAN FROM NOWHEREI HAD A DREAM LIKE YOU — AS DESPERATE AND PERFECT.
A man with some fixation on cigarettes and ache. A glass straddles his hand, licks the fingers polluting it; he's thick with the stuff, and smoke and ambergris, voice so raw it's working threads through the sunspots filtering in. Judging by the bottles piled nearby, he's in the middle of drinking the sea. There are bandages digging treads into his skin. He reeks like decadence with none of its devilry, or that wide-eyed grin — just grief, baritone, trench sadness. Hands like metal, curled heavy with sin.
When he breathes, weights come with it; when he exhales, they scream.
HE WAS IN LOVE
& FORGOT THE TASTE OF IT.BRIGHT DAYS AND SHOTS MADE OF BLURRED MIDNIGHT.
Male
6'0", a sturdy frame with weight and presence.
Covered in bandages under dark wool.
Lambskin gloves.
A sonorous voice digging through wet gravel and stone.
The thick smell of ambergris & oud.
OH, YOU BEST BE CAREFUL, BOY, WITH A MOUTH THAT BLUE-BRIGHT ASKING RIPE FOR IMPULSE, I HAD A THING FOR YOU, I HAD NAMES FOR A GAZE AS THICK IN THE BOOT-SOOT-BLACK AS YOURS. HE'S GOT SMOKE COMING OFF OF HIM IN WAVES, STYMIED, STEAMING, CIGAR BREATH MADE TO LOUNGE AND PUFFING AS DRAGON FLAME. I'VE BRUISES BURIED DEEP AND DON'T LET ME CATCHING YOU DIGGING —
YOU FORGET YOUR PLACE, LONE DIGGER. DON'T LET ME CATCH YOU WITH HANDS BURIED IN POCKETS FAR TOO DEEP FOR SUGAR CUBES AND MADE FOR RODS TO SPARE — VIOLENCE IS CHEAP BETWEEN MEN LIKE YOU AND ME.
SILENCE & VIOLENCETHEY WERE THE ONE AND THE SAME.YOU HAD TO BE CAREFUL TALKING TO A MAN LIKE THAT. SOMETIMES HE BREATHES AND THE WORLD CATCHES FLAME.
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— BLOODY BEETROOTSHE LIKES IT RAW, HE LIKES IT WICKED, GIVE IT TO ME STRAIGHT, DRY, BARREN. GIVE IT TO ME BROKEN, GIVE IT TO ME DEEP, WIDER, GIVE IT TO ME VIVID — I NEED THAT SCOTCH, I WANT THAT LIQUOR SHOVED BETWEEN MY JAWS, WORKING CIRCLES BENEATH MY EYES WITH TIRED SHARKTEETH AND CURVED AS HARPY CLAWS. I WANT THAT VIPER POISE, THAT UPTURNED MALT EDGE; THAT CRAWLING, CRUMPLED, MOLASSES-IRON TENOR TREMBLING IN MY GAZE — I WANT ALL THAT SOFT ARMOR UNDONE TO SHREDS, LET IT BURST, AND LET'S SEE WHAT A MAN IS MADE OF, YOU AND I : IF HE'S COALDUST CRUSHED BETWEEN TWO BEDSHEETS OR ALL THE IRE OF PANTHERS CAGED.
Manhattan, sweet vermouth and blackcurrant; triple sec and split walnuts; chambord and hot rye twisted bright; Żubrówka, mint, prosseco, blood cointreau crushed to puree. I had a bit of sugar in me, a type of crème lacing white the beaten lip.
HE HAD IN HIM FURY AND THE SOUND OF GRENADES.
I'VE BEEN THROUGH WAR — IT WAS LESS THAN INGLORIOUS.
". . . WISHING FOR OTHER DAYS — AND ANOTHER WAY THAN THE WRONG END OF A STICK PRAYING DESPERATE TO BE A HARMLESS GRAZE OF PUPPYGRASS UNDER A WHITE FINGERTIP, OR MIDNIGHT TOUCH BETWEEN TWO SLIPS OF ROSE SATIN — INSTEAD OF CAST IRON METAL MADE TO CUT SO DEEP WE LEFT CAVERNS BEHIND, AND MADE SPIRITS OF THOSE THAT FACED THEM--"
"I DREAMT OF YOU IN THE VALLEYS OF MEN
I DREAMT YOU ALSO DREAMT
OF ME BESIDE YOU."
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Gifts & Art
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I WANT TO BELIEVE THAT—
WE ARE STILL GOOD INSIDE, BUT LIFE
WHICH FOUND ME WANTING
FINDS ME WANTING STILL
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The End
