Buildings never forget

Thrumming down the highway with his hair on a stuffed helmet, the edge of the world straining by his side he hurtled and swerved like a maniac on the road.

His motorized trolley, his creature of petrol and brass rumbled to a halt and he, setting his visor-black, walked to the border of his town.

Two men were beside him, one of them dragging in his arms a girl.

She was struggling and had a look of terror on her face.

Beads of sweat were glistening of her shoulders, hear breasts, and she could smell the stench of her quivering panic, the horror of her bejeweled eyes and stare.

As he approached the sweet bloom in the street she started trashing more, and he only smiled broader and sharper, a wry and ironic happiness filling him bold.

So he came closer, putting a hand on her forehead, dragging a finger across her shoulders.

Her dress already ripped, her skin already red, he trailed the edge of his knife across her right leg.

She wanted to kick him, to scream, to push him over the edge of the world.

But she said nothing, absolutely nothing.


Thrumming down the highway with his hair on his stuffed helmet, the world straining by his side, he smiled.

I saw it all.

Standing in the border of the raining plaza, sitff as stone like a gargoyle. He just never seemed to keep them.

I was stuck, there was a rage inside me, and as he dragged her in I pictured her tears falling inside of me, each one teling me her world.

I could feel that sweet cocktail of emotion, that forbdden state of careless passion in the musk of his manhood. And it seemed such crime, such awful dirty crime to take that precious drink, that ambrosia of life he had, and to drink it all up in one day.

Rosy cheeks were bloated and swollen, blurred in a round face after his childish rumble. The red wine of her wounds bled daily and was made to flow bare a minute after its reopening until she was bereft, like thrown away an used diapers she was completely pale. Her moving cadaver gave each hour a last puff of frightful pain. And when the cup was empty, he liked to scrap the bottom for dredges and break up the rest.

And I had tried.

With my whispers and caresses, the wind of the fluttery and playful drafts, the sunbeams that shined daily on her bosom, and made her think of hope behind on her bleary thinking cap.

But even those rare celureans grew longer across her mental landscape, that terrible sky dripped daily like waxing, horrified paint. The sun dribbled along, trudging so slowly, across its fingered, zealous path, hour by hour, week by week, and beat, roasting her so sweetly, peeling her skin so wide. All while lazy fats of white fluff came along covering her for minutes in precious treacle solar respite.

In such unberable dryness it was that her eyes were now as narrow buttons, her ears stuffed with cotton, and her heart as heavy as iron or molten lead.

Now after the duly appointed months I felt her body justled roughly inside me, rolling in with rotten maggots in such tiny wooden box. Only here her golden hair and her fearful patrician french visage stood intact, peacefully dead.

End