Wednesday, August 27, 2014


I am entombed in legend as a symbol. Irrespective of what i symbolize it is my incongruity that marks me out. If a blinkered vision, a limited perception is the aegis with which i am  eviscerated then confessing to longings of love and desire redouble my anomalousness. I am thrice removed from apotheosis i.e by my gender, my sexuality and my bestiality.

I don't crave flesh, flesh is not the thing that motivates me. Putrefying flesh smells rancid and the blood, with its metallic stench makes me retch. It is when i think of love,a body beneath me that my spittle gleams in the moonlight, my molars coruscate iridescently and my female musk deepens, becomes more sexualized, reeks of lust.

But, as i asseverated earlier it is not bestiality which constitutes me but humaneness. I represent the primal woman, strong, self aware, unafraid to flaunt her intelligence and sexual energy. I symbolize intuition, grace, empathy. In a sense though my integument is bestial my consciousness is ethereal, rarefied, almost angelic. I straddle the worlds of corporeal fleshiness and transcendence. In a way myth embalmed me as a signifier and it is as an intimation of incorporeality that i conceptualize my sexual being.

I run across her granddaughter in the forest but i hasten to the cottage where she'd be. I impersonate the granddaughter's voice with a quivering falsetto. She tells me the latch is open. And thus i let myself in.

Her response on seeing me is one of incredulous horror. She mewls piteously, spittle foaming her wrinkled cheeks. But it is not the senselessness of her terror that excites me. The filigree wrinkles are soft to the touch, like silk. I abrade it with my tongue. Beneath the smell of powder and sweat is her primeval smell of wisdom and depth. Seeing her is like looking into a mirror and finding an anthropomorphic equivalent of my own humaneness. My darkened nipples harden, my breath quickens and i indent with my incisors, albeit gently, the engorged tips of her nipples. As my tongue licks away her puckered flesh the wolverine in her is aroused. She pinches my nipples beneath her fingers, kisses me tremulously.

And by the mirror by the bedstead is visualized not a wolverine and an old woman but two primal souls, conjoined, rejoicing that our mythic blueprints, with their respective indivisible ontologies, have now coalesced. 

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