at virtue’s zone (from the castled face of a suicidal negro)
The Myth.
Then, the myth evolves thus – that Blacker Mary could have laid belly thickly flat and eyes rounded in golden horror, when man-bearer is ruthlessly raping her for 270 days to then offer her for ransom to demons who keep his legs (therefore what’s between them) free. Nervous break-throughs and obscurations of brain work – and that which follows moons of succumbing to her most pedant tools – these called him to seeking all pale graves in reverse sexual war protocol.
‘She will ravenously crawl and claw, re-ingesting all lost secretions this male counterpart’s incompletion let through her worn pockets.’ This, the coward figures as the pedant rogue of revenge.
Yet the android coal man still possesses keys to her chastity belt, he thinks. He will keep her as thus, in search of that virginal orgasm initiated upon the rise of her abduction. She will glorify her Black Man, bending further for his creditors to skin rewards for sins she has no clue about. He would have perished by then, lonesome and love-lost.
There on raucous decks, on desks antiquated by legacies of bloodletting…there, vultures will clan along for blood-trails – hers; pent on relieving their own penury for high-blood. And there, she will lay legs agape and waiting masses of ants to reap the rot left in her valves - toxic, abiding with her punishment…cranially maladroit for any final soul-germination.
The Man she dreamt waiting like a soldier without aim, she will return homeward… only for ceaseless ingratitude, un-whole and wonder-eyed from flesh-pools she would have waded. Penile violence dripping down her marvelous thighs… tyranny of fate ravaging her will for life without love. This was that which the coward prayed, the clamor of purgatory brought forth for her sole venture. This would be his vindication from shame’s losses. He thought…
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