Swallow

“The only thing that burns in Hell is the part of you that won’t let go of life, your memories, your attachments. They burn them all away. But they’re not punishing you. They’re freeing your soul. So, if you’re frightened of dying and … you’re holding on, you’ll see devils tearing your life away. But if you’ve made your peace, then the devils are really angels, freeing you from the earth.”

— 14th century Christian mystic Meister Eckhart


“Baby this is all mine.” Guy denotes his land rights and current claims in edible marker. Red, green, and blue dashes form boundaries for prime real estate. I get a macaron for every deal brokered. Guy owns a left breast, a right thigh, the hills of protruding hip bones, the hollows that define the pelvis. He owns the place he describes as “… A perfect v that points me to you. It’s smooth and soft …It’s plump and supple. When I get there…Where it leads me its where I want to be. I look at you and it’s like…hmmm, a colorful tiny canyon with a peak. Like a small world just for me.” He pauses trying to evaluate her response. Her face is as it always been a serene and smiling mask.


I’m looking at us. We’re naked downstairs in Joachim’s placial townhouse. “I could get fancy if you want.” He looks up into her face imploring for guidance on the present subject. He didn’t want to upset her as his head rests in her lap. She may pinch his nipples. She nods blushing this time around. She says nothing. Propped up by pillows she looks like a leisurely princess being courted by a wayward prince in her bed chambers.

“Pink honey colored ribbons cloistering a warm center. Rose red throbbing well of delights that overflow with the majesty of …” He was at a lost for words. His fingers danced and caught an invisible single distinct meaningful element of speech from the air. “The feminine.”

It all sounds too familiar. I’ve heard this before. Guy sinks below the horizon between two mountainous legs. Jennifer pushes. She grunts and yowls like a cat in heat. She’s making a good effort but she doesn’t perspire. Her diaphragm neither expands nor contracts. She is not breathing. I stand behind him waiting for the crowning. Guy’s head is in the way but he’s searching for something with meticulous forethought. The muscles in his back spasm. He meets with a huge bulbous dead tongue.

The tongue is motley flesh in rigor mortis colors. The pooled blood in it became “fixed” long ago and will not move. The four paired intrinsic muscles of the tongue are unaware of their owner’s death. They accomplish their main functions of altering the tongue’s position allowing for protrusion, retraction, and side-to-side movement. No longer able to be moist it produces a harsh sandpaper sound that grates the nerves when it motions across Guy’s face. It’s a thoughtful quick lick to establish friendship like what a puppy would give a boy.

It’s all wrong… Everything is unreal and I’m happy I didn’t move closer. It’s all wrong and I’m happy I can’t move closer. I’m content with not having a clear view of what’s to come.

Guy screams behind his hands upwards to the popcorn ceiling. No god, deity, or preternatural spirit appear to answer his muffled cries for help. I do hear him. I possess no inclination to do more than listen and watch. This isn’t real. Rust-brown blood rains down on parted thighs and snow white sheets as the tongue happily wags.

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