Chapter 5: The Revolver Spirits
Disclaimers: No, I own them now, so fuck off! Well in addition to Jerry Potter, I've recently purchased Fraco Duvoi. (well there is a D in there.) We'll get the real thing soon. Rowling, lock you windows tonight. (*obscene gesture*)
Notes: Well this isn't exactly a long chapter but, whatever, no one is this reading anyway, sigh. Anyway, me and red here went to see Blood Work today with Clint Eastwood, it was good, we laughed through it. such the homoerotic fairy tale. HEH! this is another draco chapter. dun worry we'll explain later.
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It always feels like we're running together.
That dizzy dancing feel in the air. Impossible clarity in the oxygen molecules whistling past you face as you spin.
The blurry surreal sensation, absence of gravity and thought. You watch him spin. all around you. Clothes whipping about him, limbs flailing too fast to see. Just this anonymous deity, spinning all about you. All you see is him, all about you, enveloping. My second skin. Velocity's neon tornado, this emerald whirlwind.
I feel like we're spinning all the time.
I honestly feel so together now, so whole. No longer is there this nagging, pulling sinkhole in my head. No longer such urgency, such angry need. I'm spinning, and there is nothing but him and the sky. No longer do I hear his voice, just gales of laughter and the
security in youth. It's a memory, a artifact of someone long gone, and his life isn't mine anymore. I hope.
I know only the feel of his hand, the taste of his lips, the smell of his hair.
"No son of mine will ever be a faggot." I can't hear the words anymore, like atrophied joints, they lose their potency. Keep on spinning in your arms, in your touch and behind these eyes. But all things can heal, and all things such as joints and spiteful words can be roused, reawakened. But I can't care, here, in this embrace. This rapturous dance.
Now I lie beside him. My attentions on the boy beside me. My fingers trace the patterns, the remembrance of misery's design, tattoos and graffiti, inked by blood and steel. These days, everything leaves a mark. So like my own incisions, coiled around my wrists like his fingers, he rubs them with his palms as I thrust into him. Nights like that, when the skin feels too dirty, the only thing one can do is unleash something, some secreted frustration, some unseen emotion. Some dismal wish I cannot speak of. I wanted to see, if "I" was still whole.
"Were you?"
"I don't know anymore."
I have to wonder, does he see past these ugly reminders? Or with them. How can he not? Harry still won't tell me who did this. Naming the culprit "he", "him", an endless string of gender stricken titles. Sometimes, he just goes silent, with a blank expression on that still so beautiful face of his. A simple and sad look in his eyes. Harry seems so vulnerable in this state. Open, spilling himself on to the floor below, all vaulted fears and worries. They snap him like a twig, and he becomes this empty concrete creature. I beg and plead to unhearing ears. He wakes. He always wakes, explaining it away. I always act as I do, on my knees my head in my hands, driven by terrible possibility. What if he doesn't come back this time. Have we only begun to see the damage of his encounter with this nameless rapist? It's never a fear of being alone, as self absorbed as I might sound. It's of losing him, and this blasphemous euphoria he instills. Love, if you can call it that. A word pimped to the point of permanent cliché. I'll call it love, none the less. Love, the incarnation of his touch ands voice.
Yes I love Harry and I think, just maybe, I could finally be happy. But still despite how fast I spin, I know the voice. It's still there. Somewhere. Holding it's breath for the moment. No son of mine will ever be a sniveling depraved cocksucker he would always say. Could I be wrong? What's worse of these things, waiting for your voice, or Harry's to go silent. To sense your ominous presence, just beyond the rim of my thoughts. And the fear, coated with the green of Harry's eyes, is the fear just the same.
And I could, just keep on spinning, wash away all these things. Exorcize myself with the sound of harry crying out my name. These unnamed demons and insidious voices. No more will I let myself sink, here beside you. And I'll stay with you, here, in my arms tonight. The place we both so sorely need for you to be. But I can see it, even now, in this blissful state, it teeters above some impossible void. This isn't going to last. We can be in love, for as long as we can manage. Someday the spinning will stop, and we'll hit the ground hardest. Toppled by my ineptitude and worthless, selfish tears. We'll be the lovers slain, the irreparable martyrdom. We can be in love... We can be in love... We can be in love... We can be in love...
I feel like we're spinning all the time.
Though the ground is getting so much closer...
Disclaimers: No, I own them now, so fuck off! Well in addition to Jerry Potter, I've recently purchased Fraco Duvoi. (well there is a D in there.) We'll get the real thing soon. Rowling, lock you windows tonight. (*obscene gesture*)
Notes: Well this isn't exactly a long chapter but, whatever, no one is this reading anyway, sigh. Anyway, me and red here went to see Blood Work today with Clint Eastwood, it was good, we laughed through it. such the homoerotic fairy tale. HEH! this is another draco chapter. dun worry we'll explain later.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It always feels like we're running together.
That dizzy dancing feel in the air. Impossible clarity in the oxygen molecules whistling past you face as you spin.
The blurry surreal sensation, absence of gravity and thought. You watch him spin. all around you. Clothes whipping about him, limbs flailing too fast to see. Just this anonymous deity, spinning all about you. All you see is him, all about you, enveloping. My second skin. Velocity's neon tornado, this emerald whirlwind.
I feel like we're spinning all the time.
I honestly feel so together now, so whole. No longer is there this nagging, pulling sinkhole in my head. No longer such urgency, such angry need. I'm spinning, and there is nothing but him and the sky. No longer do I hear his voice, just gales of laughter and the
security in youth. It's a memory, a artifact of someone long gone, and his life isn't mine anymore. I hope.
I know only the feel of his hand, the taste of his lips, the smell of his hair.
"No son of mine will ever be a faggot." I can't hear the words anymore, like atrophied joints, they lose their potency. Keep on spinning in your arms, in your touch and behind these eyes. But all things can heal, and all things such as joints and spiteful words can be roused, reawakened. But I can't care, here, in this embrace. This rapturous dance.
Now I lie beside him. My attentions on the boy beside me. My fingers trace the patterns, the remembrance of misery's design, tattoos and graffiti, inked by blood and steel. These days, everything leaves a mark. So like my own incisions, coiled around my wrists like his fingers, he rubs them with his palms as I thrust into him. Nights like that, when the skin feels too dirty, the only thing one can do is unleash something, some secreted frustration, some unseen emotion. Some dismal wish I cannot speak of. I wanted to see, if "I" was still whole.
"Were you?"
"I don't know anymore."
I have to wonder, does he see past these ugly reminders? Or with them. How can he not? Harry still won't tell me who did this. Naming the culprit "he", "him", an endless string of gender stricken titles. Sometimes, he just goes silent, with a blank expression on that still so beautiful face of his. A simple and sad look in his eyes. Harry seems so vulnerable in this state. Open, spilling himself on to the floor below, all vaulted fears and worries. They snap him like a twig, and he becomes this empty concrete creature. I beg and plead to unhearing ears. He wakes. He always wakes, explaining it away. I always act as I do, on my knees my head in my hands, driven by terrible possibility. What if he doesn't come back this time. Have we only begun to see the damage of his encounter with this nameless rapist? It's never a fear of being alone, as self absorbed as I might sound. It's of losing him, and this blasphemous euphoria he instills. Love, if you can call it that. A word pimped to the point of permanent cliché. I'll call it love, none the less. Love, the incarnation of his touch ands voice.
Yes I love Harry and I think, just maybe, I could finally be happy. But still despite how fast I spin, I know the voice. It's still there. Somewhere. Holding it's breath for the moment. No son of mine will ever be a sniveling depraved cocksucker he would always say. Could I be wrong? What's worse of these things, waiting for your voice, or Harry's to go silent. To sense your ominous presence, just beyond the rim of my thoughts. And the fear, coated with the green of Harry's eyes, is the fear just the same.
And I could, just keep on spinning, wash away all these things. Exorcize myself with the sound of harry crying out my name. These unnamed demons and insidious voices. No more will I let myself sink, here beside you. And I'll stay with you, here, in my arms tonight. The place we both so sorely need for you to be. But I can see it, even now, in this blissful state, it teeters above some impossible void. This isn't going to last. We can be in love, for as long as we can manage. Someday the spinning will stop, and we'll hit the ground hardest. Toppled by my ineptitude and worthless, selfish tears. We'll be the lovers slain, the irreparable martyrdom. We can be in love... We can be in love... We can be in love... We can be in love...
I feel like we're spinning all the time.
Though the ground is getting so much closer...