Lucky

Thrust forward

And open your eyes to scream

It’s not about the pain but about the imagery

And with a stoke the teeth are gone

And memories mix

And the concentration

Seems desperate to linger in

But everything is in the hips

Pressed against the floor

And the thrusts into the mouth

It’s nervous

Knowing that a door can be unlocked

Anything can be taken

When another mouth is on your cock

And the sucking increases

And the noises are getting louder than the music

The borders broken

Hands stroking the body

And his cock just as hard as yours

I keep stroking his hair

He keeps booming

Eyes tight

Fingers cletching my skin

As if he might come

From the lone imagery

Of something sacred

Something distant

And the corridor

With the piano

Are blurred

With the doors far

And

No silence is heard

Besides a quick gag

And my deeper shove into his mouth

And semen covers the floor

As he apologizes for spitting

And his own mess and

We stare

We exit the room, I keep following him and he doesn’t look back for a while, until he stops and collapses outside, in front of the stage and looks up on the chandelier, cheeks sometimes giving him out, but I don’t really say anything as well, I just look lower as if I could sink my head under the floorboards and sing.

Then his hands go in between where my shoulderblades are and I look at him.

He smiles.

He should taste like my cum, I think, so I quickly press my lips against him and pull back, he does indeed taste like me. He looks too worried and I just press him lower, onto the floor.

I start taking his neck in my hands, stroking as we remain silent even if I know that most likely his lips wanted to mutter out the idea of us making tattoos, not matching, too much similiarities then, instead two between the shoulderblades for us to stare and stroke at the same time, maybe then when we would be pinned in the shower or in front a mirror, one hand on cock ours or not and the other between the shoulderbaldes stroking the area, making it sensitive from thought.

And I take his back and his arms just fall on the floor, his head firmly against my shoulder, eyes closed, as in it would be sleep, it wouln’t be calm sleep, he’d get haunted or maybe nightmares or maybe I would be above, naked, cock erect and I would tear it off and start fucking his ass with it, as if it were a pink real dildo.

I wonder if people actually do take real dicks and convert them and then my dead skin would go inside, maybe it would peel off, my skin, revealing the trickling blood with the stuck sperm and the nerves would disslove and he would enjoy it, feeling myself soften, knowing that I came and he would open his eyes to pray and beg.

I wonder what would he do, if I would dissolve, but then everyone has the thought, so I close my mind and I strip his clothing.

I wonder if ballerinas will jump in now and how the teacher would tell them to continue rehearsing as his screams would be the music and I see the small little girls I should touch myself, which I should bend over and the pink insides which are a nostalgia of birth, they all sit on fours and crawl all over, in a circle, faster and faster, growing, the teacher a candle which melts and looks like a massive phallic sculpture to praise death and blood, the women’s blood during birth or sex, do they bleed after all?

Or maybe plain menstruation and how dogs run after a bleeding bitch, were it a dog or a woman wounded from her own stupidity, maybe I had shot her, running and everything would seem like a dream, everything repeating like the room with the piano.

Where had I seen it after all?

Had I walked through it?

Had I been alone?

Had I pressed him against the wall with me and thrust into his open mouth and eyes as they would close with every thrust.

“It’s time to be in.” And I just spread out his buttcheaks, I think of tilting his over as the girls start to touch themselves and I think we are the ones who are spinning and I should be wearing a black condom, putting it on, tearing the cover with my teeth, slapping his butt and slipping inside from the candy lube we’d bought, but I don’t I just slide in and ride, in and out, scream, in and out, eyes closed.

And then his hands are spread out on the floor and maybe the girls would clap and lick their tongues, maybe no one would stare at all, maybe blood would fall on the floor, maybe all themes are gone and I had fucked him in the ass already, maybe I had met my orgasm, so I just slide out and look up to count the stars on the daylight on the ceiling and the noticed above chandelier.

I wonder how many cuts would I achive in the end if it would fall upon me and what would I do, but instead I take out a cigarette which feels like I ahve taken from the girls before as they folded it in front of me as if it ahd been a joint or maybe it is a plain combination of vanilla and tabacco so my tongue would not be a stamp and cling into the walls as the fire alarm would sound and he’d fled.

It’s not about burning the floor down, it’s about watching the candle burn down and giving it a fellatio, watching my cheeks slowly hold onto the flame and how the girls would hallucinate of me touching myself due to the puberty slowly creeping onto and they would be all pregnant and gratefull with the thirteen year old pregnant tummies and how they would all split the rivals’ stomach so that the flesh would not be born and how they would scrap it off with a Milky Way Bar and all die, holding hands and bobbing their heads as if Lithium would be playing and my hair would go blonde.

I inhale with my face on fire, slowly going to eyes and taking my vision, as the water in my fate fights and death just looks at me, never shocked, death knows when you die, so I just stare at death and I expect the cut at the neck, so that my head would roll and my body would live and that would be me, just because fate wants me to fuck more ass, as I would bend over him and lik his ass, sticking my tongue inside him and stroking his balls, his dick.

And then I would watch myself dissolve, maybe the chandelier would fall upon my head, cracking it into two parts for each one for me to hold in my eyes, I do not have the imagery besides the fire I see behind my eyelids or maybe in front my eyes I burnt but I see.

I open my mouth.

I boom the candle.

It hits the back of my throat, travelling to my lungs. I cough out onto my hands, holdning them near the candles and soon fire is my floor and cloth.

I wipe my sweat with my crispy fingers, sticking them to be left in already dug out by the fellatio holes.

And then maybe I’d play, burning, something, maybe a piano.

So I wobble back into the room, I don’t know but I feel so I press my nose depepr into the keys to hear a sound and I close my eyes, softly as I feel them being held softly, as my hair sweps the floor now and every eyelash is a burst for the wood to burn and I slowly start falling off the keys and the rug is around me, so I wrap myself with it and I feel darkness stroke me as if it were a towel and the crust is taken off my face, my muscles, my bones and the rug is left alone.

I love you

-

'I want to write a gay sex scene under Helter Skelter by The Beatles'. That was the initial idea and I didn't really care if it would end up as prose or poetry and ended up as both, really.

Among the song list I recall Radiohead and The Cure's Pornography.

I remember that I was either asked or told that it was something like a feeling or an orgasm, so really the story ended being an orgasm. That's where the I love you at the end comes from.

The room with piano or backstage, it came in my mind and I couldn't understand where I had the image from, I roughly linked where most likely or rather the time period when I saw it, but still, fuck, no connection where and how. Maybe I dreamt it or something I've seen as a child.

It's Lucky because my subconscious spat it out and maybe it holds a reference to Lucky by Radiohead somewhere, otherwise my sanity holds no connections.

I listen to music to mute my sanity, when I write or if I write without music, I'm too tired or my sanity shot itself or gave up.