S N A K E - Douglas Reese (love letters to the dead .txt) 📗

Floating through time. Through space. Through the very definition of weightlessness. They both felt powerful. Powerless. Full of power. Absent of it. Everything at once. They felt like God and they felt like a speck of dirt. They felt dirty and they felt holy. They felt invincible. Floating through the stars and avoiding collisions with all that come close to breaking them apart. But they only force it upon them more. Hazy. Foggy. Dark. Orgasmic.

With every thrust he could feel himself collecting more and more power from within her. Every pounding deep inside her made him come inches closer to the brink of collapse. One small shove to the left and a ruthless grind to the right as her lips come forward and succumb to the side of his neck. Her arms squeezing tightly around his back and her legs clinging to his as they both breathe heavily in sync with one another. Both have reached a level of subconscious in which neither can bare a clear understanding of what either lurks within their physical surroundings or their mental. The action so intense that the putrid smell of the location can’t even rise to a point of withstanding and cannot even lower itself into destroying what has already arrived close to its moaning peak.

Both he and her have made the decision to jump into one another’s passion but whether or not they can feel anything of any sort of substance remains to be seen. And as they both reach the finishing line they both reach the point in a clearly immediate event. Her fingernails clinch deeply into the skin of his back as if to be digging her own place to bury and suffocate herself. His mouth began to run extremely dry as he placed it against her ear as he let out the final wail; he gives her every piece of information in that single natural wave of sound.

It is then that everything fades back in.

The sand beneath her seems to ride back into feeling on her back. The smell of the vodka screwdriver drink on her breath dawns boldly through his nostrils and makes him crave the drink for himself. The moonlight that bleaches their skin in an eerie glow follows the distinct and repetitive sounds of the mild crashing waves of the beach.

And then the more important things began to come through.

She felt as if she was hideous and as if she could read his mind as he sat his head up to look at her face. She recalls the huge zit she saw on her face that morning and the fact that her makeup was probably melting from her face due to the incredible amounts of sweat that drained from her during the dancing that took place for hours only minutes prior to the sequence on the beach. The first thing he felt was a slight disgust for himself. Not only did he feel nauseous from the combination of alcohol and fierce movement he had inflicted onto himself, but he also felt completely repulsed that he knew nothing about the woman he just fucked. The slight loss of his erection also made him feel a sleazy bit of humiliation as he finally pushed himself from inside her and fell to his back as to lay directly next to her in the sand. Both were no longer breathing in sync, but alternating between their exhaling and inhaling in a song of disconnection.

And while the song played on, the entire rest of the planet kept going on with its own lyric. The bar in the clubhouse planted on top of the hill overlooking the beach had its bass-filled beats echoing in the night with intrusive punches following punches and kicks followed by hushes. And falling away from the tree of the nighttime life, one that is punctuated by the chaos of demoted vampires that no longer find solace in the light of the sun, was every single sound that was still being heard astutely from the universes that exist away from our realm. Where the ears of all are open to understanding and closed eternally to the very whispers that aim to stir repulsion and stubbornness. They realize that in the blink of their eye, our planet could vanish. But yet, they hold both eyes open with pins in their eyelids and the little hope left in their crumbling hearts.

And with each sound they hear is a story more distant from the previous. Everything that has happened and will happen is composed through the various strands of noise; whether it be in dim silences or in colorful commotions. All of them turn from page to page in the book of all that is singing, and in the sudden reversal of the spinning hand is when the listeners can truly dig within the very mindsets of all who have their feet buried in the dirt of the planet. Before the violence of the vampires wrecks havoc on the very nature that surrounds the clubhouse, there was a silence. One that was lengthy and unhampered with and never once drew attention from anything other than those who embraced the noiselessness. There was just the waters and the land and the dark-complexioned walkers that lived amongst the shore. Just as the aliens with their eyes wide open, these ancestors kept all around them in their dreams. That was until one swift stampede of the careless spread its wings and revealed rifles that would break the quiet and evolve all that was once a peaceful melody into a thunderous drumming of poundings that dripped with blood.

This was when the grass on the shore was suffocated by factory-born sand. This was when a collection of the not-so-fortunate would bring puzzle pieces of wood and metal together in order to create the ear-bruising plant atop the hill. It is because of this intrusiveness and this lack of care that lend a cryptic, punctured hand in the transition from natural brotherhood amongst nature to forceful rivalry amongst forces. The listeners can hear everyone and everything. The voice of the grass as it was crushed by the muted sand and the way the stillness of the air is beaten aggressively by the artificial music. Everything that existed before the fakery is constantly in a brawl with the manmade projects that pin them down and take complete control.

The horse and the beauty in the sound of its grace. To man’s ear, the hooves are heard as the beast prances amongst the ground and the neighing of its vocals are imitated as if no soul lives behind their black eyes. But the original sound that emanates forth from the creature is one of a subtle hearing. The rolling of the earth itself as the hair of the beast dances with swirls and zigzags against the wind that presses upon the body during a freedom-filled run. Now, robbed of such freshness, the horse stands knee-deep in its own shit, those black eyes slowly fading into a milky white before transparency finally grits its filthy teeth. A specific sheet of notes played a tune of fantasy for a walking louder man who searched for his own satisfaction in the intestines of the animal. This song has yet to be forgiven.

In fact, the only song to actually be passed on without hesitation of its potency is the somber sonata of those who reside six feet below the ground. Their decomposition into the very natural material that possesses the very habitat that they disrespected during movement of the lung is an ironic tune that carries the universe’s perky humor upon its shoulder as it simultaneously brings forth the spiteful understanding that its almost natural to be artificial. The dissection and separation of the two elements of the human being’s soul only makes cockroaches laugh.

But this woman who understand the sounds and still managed to exist in the same spectrum as the oxygen-driven took her own frantic chuckle of the cycle. She allowed for the cockroaches to infest her home, as they helped scratch a melody into her ears that soothed her and relaxed her and made her realize the invincibility that lives behind the stubborn white eye. This is the instrument of what is and what will become; but she doesn’t sing along with the tune as much as the nails do within their punctured manmade holes.

With the water touching the rough scales as it thrusts all it has been given at the shore of the beach, the simple existence of the snake fruitfully makes way into the construction. While the two still press their backs into the sands of the location, the snake itself watches them with adoring eyes and envisions exactly what is seen from the feminine podium The tight grip of the masculine fingers and the abstract sand angel that only existed at the bare feet. The snake carried on watching, enticed and feeding off the power that it provided. In one sharp coil and a lunge, he took flight in the air absent of the metal wings and took both reflection and original image of the butterfly and consumed it with his throat. The butterfly’s song of silence begins, as the song of the uterus takes a toll for the mile-long watchtower. In only a short passing of hundreds of hours, the frantic arithmetic would soon make amends with the maternal figure before bowing down to its knees in guilt. This one sequence of an event has changed the course of all that makes music, and all that make music can’t hear it above their lyrics. That’s where the power truly sleeps, and it has now been shaken from its slumber.

And as the snake made its lasting dive back to the beginning of its lunge, so do the mermaids point out the lack of logic in the success of its empowering binge. All it takes is the coil. All it takes is the lunge. And all it matters is for eternity to turn back on itself and every word bleeding on the page to erase its intellect.

The goddam cockroaches can only laugh.

Publication Date: 09-21-2011

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