Literary Yard

Search for meaning

By: Mitch Green

Kettle wax

Interstellar techno-optics formed flashes of bright, splashing pigments across the far wall. Fashionably suitable for this celebrative, retro-themed shindig. Knee-high stockings skinned to the seam of multicolor ribbons. Lacing wars, racing to slither between breasts of a golden horse-weave. Coloring contexts. It was in all honesty the allure of a lifetime if addressed. It was the venue I set on fire. Merely to witness it’s burning; and the richness to boil into a kettle scream. Their dresses engulfed inward, among melting to cotton carnality as if such embroidered, false fabric belonged to blend. I sat, rigid – neither flinching nor squirming from humidity, but sipping away at the heel of a brandish born intern. Popping prattling, squeamish squealing, coaxing my mind to wander. How long had I been here? Is this my third or millionth? Never burning – melting into a soup substance to heal a fever. A chill starter no less – instigating the rain to ignite, slip down from the strewn – smolder flashing ceiling, and douse my weight in a cleanse.

Everything swayed into coal birth.

The lamps were all bent, re-vamped to bow before broken frames – scattered amid the undergrowth of souring sofas; milled up into the coil of silver. It was purity of abolishment. A growing, crawling and ever fluid stream of scarfing sadism – smearing away the paint. This is mine to endure – my only means to actual realness. Perched in lofty submission to the folds of nice, thick hips.

Creasing over – as her fingers pinched matches.

Wax girl – flirtatious curiosity to pitch a tantrum.

I never knew she could burn so brightly – and with such enthusiasm. Misplacing her kindly courtesy for arsenic pride – whilst exposing the grand attraction of spoiling their gossip, self-centeredness. Her teeth were brilliantly fit to comfort the squinted dashes, lashes wafting the heat to shimmy up my leg, across the collar of my vest and into the pale surprise I implemented.

A frozen vibe to spark an infinite torch; we, the candlestick cult.


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