Aeon III: Aeon of Horus
October 18, 2010 § Leave a Comment
Aeon III: Aeon of Horus
How I feel I am atoning for past errors in judgments, more than that, involuntary insouciance, lack in responsibility, carelessness.
Atonement, for the pain I have cause while seeking pleasure for sake of pleasure without considering the surface, which allowed said pleasure.
I have convinced myself that I have found aforementioned penitence through restraints. I have let myself be controlled by these same restraints, which have been imposed upon my flesh. Flesh, where impulsions have lead to sin.
I have sinned. I have committed sin, I have failed to withhold from instinctual animalistic needs that were below me, below my name, below my past faith, and remained not atoned for in my present beliefs.
I am exhausted of repenting, of submitting to myself.
That little cunt feeding me with affections she doesn’t man up to.I have been picturing her above me, her hair falling into my face, into my eyes, streaming down to my shoulders,I have been imagining her over and over again, breast bare, resting upon me. Her skin showering upon mine, her mouth dripping into mine. The images of her skin tease me; the soft lines around her eyes and her eyelashes tickling my stomach as she descends. Descending between my legs, licking her way through me, over and over again.
In her home I am but a tool for her, her vision of esthetics, for her performance. I am nowhere close to myself. I bathe in her smell. I imagine her under me, that fucking cunt. I want to tie her legs open wide to the wooden posts of her bed. The drapes of silk slipping between us, falling onto us from the wooden poles.
Open wide, you whore I want to fuck the repentance out of me, out of you. I want to fuck the catholic inside you to hell. This is not an exercise of lovemaking; this is a good filthy fuck I am yearning for.One without debt, one with only sweet comforting pain and an unbounded yearning for more.
Shit! I am so full of narcissism its turning my bones to rot, and I wont cum if you don’t keep feeding that mirror reflection of my cunt. I can’t hear her anymore. I only want her pleadings. Pleading for more, pleading to stop, pleading again, for more. I picture her, asking me to stay, crawling back under my feet. The ropes she teased me with, finally pulling on her. Bruised wrists begging to be bruised, again.
Leave my chest, under you.
I love the echo.
There is sudden clarity in the complete absence of self; the duality between body and will is mute. I have killed the dichotomy of my morals.
This is an installation of words in V parts.
Pictures by Marie Jane, in collaboration with Jimmi Francoeur, Ropes by F.Dunter, Styled by Emilie Lacourciere