NYC Rooftop Slaughterhouse
The air was dense and thick with that psychedelic magic. Rooftop party resistance caught in the mirror. She hugged the railings allowing for intimate interaction with desire and fear. A carnal exhibition of coiling energy winding up her spine, softly. She grasped the feeling loosely enough to not crimp the hand; letting her thighs feel the coolness of the railing then forgetting, until she resubmitted her upper legs to that very same procedure. The cool air grazes her arms and she suddenly grips the rails. She pushed forwards; through the slew of wired and entranced astral projectors; a ghost on the skyline. The night affair and chemical partnerships fostered the beauty still reaching towards the milky moon resonating peachy and blue beams. They met that day like a shadowy skewed memory. They did not talk. They shared a moment on the very same iron railing fated to create a way to touch. Deja vu, the galaxy’s ebb, howling in the night shift. Cross hairs parted and extended touching new corners of slanted emotions and gestures. The coldness of the railing was the interface in which they spoke; wondering eyes set over the way side lifting and readied beyond liquid lips.
Shala had a disposition that tore off brambles and branches; freeing the sun’s pulpy resin. She would glow in her travels, skywards. Never knowing that the stack of twigs gave her safe passage to new spaces where she would climb upon; a higher foothold onto which there was no need for a forgotten older self. Incandescent spirit reading magic via shifting facets of an omnibus of rain droplets.
Teleporting into the richness of a wide scope of vision; buried underground where people seldom go especially with the realization that people come into your life to eradicate the coarse nature of too much travel in one day. Mediation has always been a ritual of seeing completely; mirrors reflecting and eliminating erroneous refraction. What could have been, was. The fortune of being brings gifts of unsurmountable splendor racked by the spiral staircase of chance events; like the lotus flower breathing incantation in the metaphysical. Shala struck the tide of buildings with a guttural supernatural scream that ripened on the way out. A joy resonating in the valley of apartment buildings and street lights. What took eons became a night’s work, under desk lamp and tepid waters. Why has there been such a shortage of moans? The city seemed sleepy comparatively speaking in such a place that breaches the hazed R.E.Ms quietness; the only dreamers were awake ones. Insiders went out to seek the blocky silence and the night humans hummed with her a lullaby that uncoiled the snake’s green scaled body completely up the spine. Reaching the nether region in a slow undulating; causing some to shiver and some to shimmer; the afterglow wafted in the palates of changing skin tones from red to orange from violet to white. Shala sighed as her awareness of the crowd grew more vivid, tucked away were her heart shaped sunglasses which she saved for the three song encore. Only to hide the uncurled sureness with blackened eyes. Her smokes folded over a half torn t shirt about one and a half times for security’s sake. “Miss out/ cut out dead ends best friends / howl out a riot/ three fourths dead ashtray diet. And the spilled milk is empty it never left me/ the moon has been crashing my party ancestral robbery.”
She happened to crash my party and robbed my heart and that was the beginning of what makes up a collected fragmented now. I wish she came sooner but the crackle of howls always scared me off; this would have been an arduous task to overcome in the before. Does she feed upon my heart’s content smile or linger for the words of wisdom’s rippling tide or feast on my body; I know now which she chose. A private encore for us to share with a crowded room, she sprouted tight Latin curls. “Reminders of life on an island”. Chanting down the highways of this and now while time embellishes a Speak easy of gnostic lunar rinds, peeling away at us. We kiss with an intensity that marks blank pages with a visceral curl of the tongue embodying those that cut with words. The skin married by the snake’s side winding shape, seducing with the cold blood that adapts to the ambiance like slow crawling mutterings and ancient moans. Stepping upon both the dark corners and light bulbs. We purchased this one building with the money coming in from the raw sun record deal she cut and it completely gave us the luxury of seven years security. Sounds like a rock star sort of move; heavy with shaky undertows but the water is warm and lucid like the words of each of our lips. The color and texture fit, no sign of aging just beautiful repose. They set the switch to the balcony fans on; we fell sleep. It seemed that her nocturnal eyes shifted slow enough to ease the movement yet fast enough to stir myself away from the calm within her ravine of sleep, finally able to stretch and completely fit soft with a polarized taut tension. Explosive with energy yet at a point where the stretch was relief falling and flowing off her thighs. She remembers feeling the transitions in her nine month cycle of birth the universe teleporting the egg and showing to her alone that magic is a personal experience and sensuality consists of the lens used. From fear to joy to the subtle heir of knowing through physical sensation. She then woke and forgot her dream as I strung my arm over hers. In a stir she felt nostalgia of being interlocked with the moon’s sap.
I underwent an odd weird understanding that space heeds the call of its travelers. Picking up the tracks of that very splendor, pulsing, chaotic form that allows passage to our higher consciousness however remote the signal.
She was a woman of twenty seven years soft and angular; wide hips and a deep cavernous dimensional spirit. She went still into the madhouse of eyes. Back to that night on the rooftop. She keeps creeping into my dreams. I don’t know her name only her style; she is wicked burning my photograph; the only memory I have of her, let us begin the search. The next day I crept into the sidewalks where one of my buddies had told me he’d seen her careening. Hey, this gets criminal. Standing around the welfare of my lust. What forlorn love tale was this once the action deviates from that cross sun picking off the petals. The rigor of the heat and walking led me to a bodega across from a mosque. I began to believe that she would have to wait, I had a 3pm appointment. Therapy is an important segment of my life; a struggle for stability and peace. Inner sanctuary was the best I could foster.
She walks from another convience store again glowing from the ardent day waving a pocket full of cigarettes to her newest friends, local. She could smell the latent breeze of beer and pot. Sinking into the newly renovated apartment. Shala held a strong wish to commune with the atmosphere. Crissy and John her neighbors had been a couple for three years now. Was she out on a limb by asking for a puff off that delicate flower? When her thought was interrupted with a waving of a joint across the left of her, causal. Whistles were the days pass time when she stood long enough to be glanced at; “Aye sabor”.
I, the simple man that forgot his cigarettes in the park. Wait until those new guests to come and sweep away my trying. I went off to my therapist office waiting for the worst of the cravings to tie me down and mess me up. I was doing a bit of that walking when some funnies where leering at this girl they gave me the hint. “Yo that’s the new girl, uff, I would love to get me some wild sex with her”. She was already the main course. What’s up with this area always stressing the nonsense? Those lower end words that keep us slaves. Does it matter that much to me because I went over, liking to see if these buzzing twins had hit a goldmine.
She was set, “no mas”. She needed to sit down. The broad daylight smoke, man I can’t. They were joking about those little babies that would come up to her maybe like fourteen, sixteen the most; manning up to her like they wanted to wife her or something. “C’mon with the chuckles”, but it was serious business to see how they kept it sort of cool. “Hey beautiful, let’s go on a date”. “Where you going to take me? C’mon now”. She been caught off guard by the rude ones they were the older more experienced, vulgar heathens. The lens from them to the boys was better, the boys were still cute.
Oh shit that’s her; man what good luck. Those legs on the railings heaving laughter she was that goldmine. Can’t make sense of it but I have met her prior; she had been wearing Saris to shield herself from the crumpling wind and the vultures. Well to see is to see.
Changing the scene a bit she ducked in under the stoop to get some food.
Damn that was my chance…… Well, I can’t miss those therapy sessions. I know where she lives ill make my walks less direct and more common. Wishing on a star can really get you places. The solar blanket was to die for like a resting monster of luminosity. Where my baby can you be; that was when my star prayer was answered, no name yet but locale is a better place to start I believe. Hey that’s where I get to play out the soft beat of the love parade. Got here just in time two minutes early searing hot office but I love the heat; puts me at peace. Jolene was the sort of therapist that made you smile on those bad days, forget education she was in my mind hired for her “Simpatica” nature. Man and you can bet that those legs led me through many a lonely night. When I step into the private closed door it’s a wishing well of yearning. “Tell me Krish, how are you”? As if I needed to be prompted to speak. I love the coolness of her daydream thighs. I been thinking I need something to keep me in love; like with the universe. Theres plenty to speak of but my switch turns my focus off to the dimness. I just got published in a small magazine; no cash just resume fluffer. What can I do.
Jolene tireless with her thighs; I could paint her I thought. Lists; are a good way to wrap things up each accomplishment will leave you with a better outlook. She cleans my wounds and tells me I have a lot to live for like things that make you want to keep trying. Never making real objective or subjective strikes; just a lot of open handed smiles. When we think about life the reasons we still have to realign ourselves sometimes, it’s a matter of progress. My issues are circumstance; being born the wrong year or my brother leeching all the undivided attention. Why should we practice the wrongness.