Camry was
chocolate and I came to love her, much more than the green-vintage-overpriced
Mercedes that we later came upon and bought in a drunken auction, simply
because it may have hauled Goering’s arse once in a while in the war.
Ghastliness in
cruelty is ridiculously readable, like the life of Saloth Sar or for that
matter Goering, in whose car we committed acts of glee, our pleasure enhanced
in his genocide-will, which may have been as cold as ours, the buyers of his
legacy.
The cold chill of
turkey was for me to live through, since the availability of hits was
completely cut off by Thuy Binh and her deadly muse, Miho.
In the secret
space of my dreams, I was scared each evening before being bathed in a glow of
psychedelic lights, transitioning gently between green and red. On the first
night, I lay in the soft of down, my stomach cramping and retching in the
discomfort of convulsions, while Miho moved in flowing silk towards Thuy Binh.
They were unhurried, the lips of each dwelling upon the lips of the other for
tens of seconds at a time, savouring and growing gentle in tasting the rewards
of patient-unhurried lust.
It is the
in-between that stones you, brown, surging when green struggles against red,
landing in a shade of stone.
When I shrivelled
wormlike in withdrawal, the hallucinations became as real as dreams that you
enter without ever waking up, infinity nightmares. In that wring of pain, Miho
and Thuy Binh, they came to me, often shooting up from off my chest while I was
denied the drug that my body craved. On that first night, as if in a game, they
allowed me to eat and suck the remainder powder off their fingers. Those few
micrograms left me sweating and begging for more. My women, they simply
caressed me, smiling all the while.
The first forty
eight hours were the worst, and I know not why they made me suffer, since in the
end
I regressed back
into the world of cocaine, careful enough to taste on the tongue what I
accepted as coke into the nose.
You may have
guessed, heroin, it does not agree with me, and for my remainder days I stayed
away from it, except once when my aggressor forced me to eat it while I
screamed from the restraint of shackles.
They loved each
other, Miho and Thuy Binh, respectfully. It was evident in their decent-genteel
lovemaking that I lay witness to in those ghastly days of withdrawal. The
respect, I recognised it immediately as an evolution from debased stoned sexual
experiments of body and mind, succumbing eventually to the liquid warmth of
locked lips as the ideal avenue for tasting love, on a longer term vista with a
steady partner. The gentle decency was in accepting the perversion that one may
have unleashed on the other, leaving things behind, looking at a life ahead
spent in the others love.
Drenched in the
transition rainbow of dim lights, they made no attempt at privacy in their love
making, often flashing glances at me through it all, as if from a screen of a
titillating film made for the express purpose of male arousal.
In the few
infrequent open windows of sobriety, I soaked in the images of Miho at dawn,
sweating upon the sands in the flourish of a well wielded Katane. Often,
she perfected her skills alone, in the knee deep waves of the sea beyond. I
came to respect her weapons as natural extensions of her arms. When I felt
strong enough, I stood in the balcony gazing upon her in the sea, marvelling at
her superhuman swims and sprints. She would swim for many minutes before she
lay exhausted on the sand. Even in deep waters, she clung on to her weapons;
the additional weight made the minutes of survival seem hours for that
apprentice of martial arts, Miho. It made me crave the physical torture of
squash but my depleted strength left it a mere dream for now.
Each morning, the
two lovers dressed in traditional Sarongs and offered prayers to their
Lord, chanting along with the tinkle of bells while the priest adorned the
figure of the Lord with fragrant flowers.
chocolate and I came to love her, much more than the green-vintage-overpriced
Mercedes that we later came upon and bought in a drunken auction, simply
because it may have hauled Goering’s arse once in a while in the war.
Ghastliness in
cruelty is ridiculously readable, like the life of Saloth Sar or for that
matter Goering, in whose car we committed acts of glee, our pleasure enhanced
in his genocide-will, which may have been as cold as ours, the buyers of his
legacy.
The cold chill of
turkey was for me to live through, since the availability of hits was
completely cut off by Thuy Binh and her deadly muse, Miho.
In the secret
space of my dreams, I was scared each evening before being bathed in a glow of
psychedelic lights, transitioning gently between green and red. On the first
night, I lay in the soft of down, my stomach cramping and retching in the
discomfort of convulsions, while Miho moved in flowing silk towards Thuy Binh.
They were unhurried, the lips of each dwelling upon the lips of the other for
tens of seconds at a time, savouring and growing gentle in tasting the rewards
of patient-unhurried lust.
It is the
in-between that stones you, brown, surging when green struggles against red,
landing in a shade of stone.
When I shrivelled
wormlike in withdrawal, the hallucinations became as real as dreams that you
enter without ever waking up, infinity nightmares. In that wring of pain, Miho
and Thuy Binh, they came to me, often shooting up from off my chest while I was
denied the drug that my body craved. On that first night, as if in a game, they
allowed me to eat and suck the remainder powder off their fingers. Those few
micrograms left me sweating and begging for more. My women, they simply
caressed me, smiling all the while.
The first forty
eight hours were the worst, and I know not why they made me suffer, since in the
end
I regressed back
into the world of cocaine, careful enough to taste on the tongue what I
accepted as coke into the nose.
You may have
guessed, heroin, it does not agree with me, and for my remainder days I stayed
away from it, except once when my aggressor forced me to eat it while I
screamed from the restraint of shackles.
They loved each
other, Miho and Thuy Binh, respectfully. It was evident in their decent-genteel
lovemaking that I lay witness to in those ghastly days of withdrawal. The
respect, I recognised it immediately as an evolution from debased stoned sexual
experiments of body and mind, succumbing eventually to the liquid warmth of
locked lips as the ideal avenue for tasting love, on a longer term vista with a
steady partner. The gentle decency was in accepting the perversion that one may
have unleashed on the other, leaving things behind, looking at a life ahead
spent in the others love.
Drenched in the
transition rainbow of dim lights, they made no attempt at privacy in their love
making, often flashing glances at me through it all, as if from a screen of a
titillating film made for the express purpose of male arousal.
In the few
infrequent open windows of sobriety, I soaked in the images of Miho at dawn,
sweating upon the sands in the flourish of a well wielded Katane. Often,
she perfected her skills alone, in the knee deep waves of the sea beyond. I
came to respect her weapons as natural extensions of her arms. When I felt
strong enough, I stood in the balcony gazing upon her in the sea, marvelling at
her superhuman swims and sprints. She would swim for many minutes before she
lay exhausted on the sand. Even in deep waters, she clung on to her weapons;
the additional weight made the minutes of survival seem hours for that
apprentice of martial arts, Miho. It made me crave the physical torture of
squash but my depleted strength left it a mere dream for now.
Each morning, the
two lovers dressed in traditional Sarongs and offered prayers to their
Lord, chanting along with the tinkle of bells while the priest adorned the
figure of the Lord with fragrant flowers.
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