Jimmy stared at Polly. Stared right into her. Polly felt it. It almost took her breath away. It was love, baby. The real madness.
Kill or be killed, I’ll cut out your eyes.
It was frightening. Being in love. Precious. Never knowing when it would suddenly end. All those moments, one day to be taken away. Somehow.
Maggots eat through your cerebellum, pus-filled corpses rise.
He had loved her intensely since before they had gotten together. Always watching her from afar. Seeing her everyday on the factory floor. Him working in the garage workshop. Her in admin.
Tumours suck the life from throats. Cancerous nightmares.
Working on those cars day in and day out tired him out. He had loved cars when he was a child. He hated them now. Gas guzzling planet destroyers. Hated them so much that he sold his. His boss told him he was mad.
Rivers of bile as spleens explode through stomachs.
Then he finally got up the guts to ask her out for a drink. She said, yes. He remembered the way she blinked, almost fluttered her eyelids. She stared down shyly at her feet. Her soft jet black hair blew across her pale cheek as she smiled.
Zombies gnaw at your neck, rape your eye sockets.
Jimmy had H.R.Giger tattoo on his back. It was from a painting called Baphomet. It was a bio-mechanical masterpiece. A naked pale glowing woman. A goat’s head. Two serpents entwined. She loved it. Gently raining velvet kisses down upon it. Slayer playing softly in the background.
Scrotums ripping. Semen flowing down rivers of gore.
The first night they slept together, they knew it was different. It was not just fucking and grinding. It was not like the other times. It was not pure animal need. They made slow and long love. Slow and long. Tongues entwining lip rings. Teasing bites. Bringing each other up to that point. Together. That beautiful point.
Hell flies through blood and gore. Rotting gash.
Afterwards they lay in each other’s arms. Damp and exhausted. Single beads of sweat trickled. Knowing that you are in the thrall of a chemical reaction designed to aid reproduction and spread your genes back into the pool of life does not take the feeling away. You just feel.
Putrid criminal species living in sewers of your own making.
They just held each other. For moments that became minutes. Minutes that became an hour. In silence. No words were needed.
Now you are fucking dead!
(Song: Zombie Tea Party by Emasculated Parrot)
Jason Michel has been turned on, tripped up and stumbled over all around the world on an eleven year(so far)self imposed exile. He now lives in France. He has recently published his first novel “Confessions of a Black Dog” at lulu.com and has had work published in various print and online magazines. His work can be seen at http://beatendog.blogspot.com/
ooh, makes me want to listen to a bit of herb alpert. Very, very good.
Beautifully bleak, Jason. Indeed!
just realised that my scrotum’s missing an “r”.
won’t be the first time …
Your scrotum has been stitched.
won’t be the first time …