Thursday, 16 June 2011
She Comes in Colours
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll 26
The words and minds of all the strangers anchor them to gormless norms, rejecting gifts of psychic presence, shrinking them to local forms. The satyr’s touch has left a stark imbalance in its turgid wake; disharmonies that warp the mood that lovers always give and make and rendering all artistry and synchrony a fraud, a fake.
The world remains a lyric theatre - a performance witnessed from firelit wings of a shadowy stage by blissful lovers slipping and sliding through cackling cantata in an immortal kata; conjoined at hips and breasts and brows and lips while brilliant stars and fey chimera giddily wheel round the central axle of their heartfelt fusion
The wheezing satyr melds into the shadow of the Lady Racheal’s dancing tresses and transforms into a particlad harlequin creature; a spectral phantom with glimmering fangs and gleaming eyes affixed upon the psychedelic psychic priestess’ bobbing, mashing, rollicking breasts. It licks its lips and speaks; “S’no hassle, man, no worries, no strife.”
The shapeshifter’s long-nailed knobbly hand squeezes all the way round the trance-riding priestess’ silken arm as her prince looks on, bemusedly stunned but unamused as his lover continues to ride, regardless. Their lovemaking is completely unstoppable, emotion in motion, fuelled by passion and high grade acid, ethanol, hash and the Lord Kha-Aan’s chalice of mysterious offerings.
The tripping teens are completely enmeshed in a slippery jumble of limbs and images - walls of sound, entire zoologies of smells and sensations, all molten and cooked in a synaesthetic soup - far, far out and unnervingly close they loose all boundaries, completely absorbed in the moment of wonder, united and sundered with each tender touch and deep stabbing thrust.
The satyr’s touch is the merest, faintest, meagre portion of the Lady Racheal’s transmogrification. Her ongoing climax throbs inside her loving lover’s translucent meat. It screams right through his springing bones as lyrics and voices mingle and warp in twinkling galaxies of dazzling darkness. She’s a wilful extension of her mate’s lusty will; he’s a vision she brings into incarnate being, reflecting desire through love’s refraction as they writhe and twine in undying attraction. He rides within the unchartable form of his Lady Racheal’s supersensory storm as she rides him through planes of dizzying shadow - riding each other through shimmering realms of multiplex meaning and meaningful wonder.
Hypnotised by visceral motions, heavenly scents, stunning sights and ecstatic emotions, her absorbed young man scarcely notes the mundane intrusion of matter’s illusion. His tricksy bride seems unperturbed by the shaggy stranger’s uncalled for proximity or importune manhandling, or the windy sigh of drunken breath that shifts across her silken skin. She soars and rides in an inner dance through oblivious heights of ecstatic trance, communing with a deeper part of her psychedelic psychic psyche.
He catches a glimpse of another mind, the spirited soul of an ancient self who rides with and within her exultant being - a wise and canny antecedent reclaiming reality through the teenage priestess’s vesicle flesh. She wraps and winds her rhind around him, melds her blazing need to his, calling forth his inner guide to complement her yearning love with a striving, writhing needful tug that draws his guardian forth as bid.
A blast of wordless poesy fills their bright resplendent streaming souls as the sightless veil that separates them simply fades and falls apart. Minds unite and scenes ignite inside their paranormal sight and all the world reverts to light and all within it living art – each splendid scene an endless moment, a liquid, limpid, languid brushstroke revealing and replacing dreams in streaming waves of teeming schemes. The rider and the willing ridden show themselves as they are bidden to the eyes of all those hidden in the fire lighted hall, revelling in naked play while others stare or glance their way to watch the stark revealed display of lusty sex’s siren call.
The stranger’s grabbing, grappling hand is a slight distracting band of transience that fades before their blinding act of binding love - the only living truth amidst pervasive human hubbub thrall that fills the tribal house and hall as gabbling sounds abound above. They recombine in dancing time to the rhythmic rhyming chanting chime that streams through all the tripping minds and bodies in the dark longhall. Racheal is pneumatic, gracious, automatically tenacious, bold and brazen and bodacious, skyclad idol of them all.
She reels and moans, eyes flashing bright, alighting on her man’s delight, strangely roused by all the fright and unforgotten sights of rites as her lover raises her to heights of passion at her call. He cups her breasts, she grips him tight, enraptured raptors in full flight through the fancy chancy psychic night, while those about them crawl.
She’s locked around the blooming locus of her senses, mind unfocused, drifting off through hocus pocus realms as rider and the ridden, cleft to hilt as flesh is bidden by an ancient force that’s hidden in her form’s encasing midden, a mesmerising inner call. An ancient elder moves within her, guiding the naïve beginner, mounting her as a lover in her body-mind, like a piercing awl - freed from a cyst by the catalyst and bold defying sexy tryst of youthful spirits that persist beyond their ancient fall.
Their mating dance is paean and prayer, a sacred rite in the tribal lair, enacting joy that all may share their immortalising Tantric tryst; a point most guests have surely missed as they weave and waver, stoned and pissed, though many think they’ve caught the gist when the satyr grabs the girl’s slim wrist – she sloughs him off with a simple twist and the satyr forms a knobby fist as he exits up the stair.
“Where’s the bong?”
“Turn up the volume!”
“I always call ’em ‘she’, jussin’ case…”
“Fuck this hippy shit!”
“Rock ’n’ Roll!”
“Fuckin’ doll allright!”
“I’ll be back,” the beast declares through drunken rants and glistening stares as it slinks and slithers off upstairs - a satyr seeking better luck; someone to drink or thing to suck or preferably to fondle and fuck as he searches for an unsealed door. A darkling mass of human shapes fills the hippy hall with jests and japes, heaving to music it hears and makes in hooting cries through blacked-out breaks, and those who have the knack to stare while they dance and tack toward the pair of lovers whose every move is bare to their gaze see ever more. The quartet of teens is half-hid inside a flickering darkness far offside the blazing hearth where flames abide, yet slashes of light pierce their joyful hide through weaving cracks as dancers glide and weave through slack gyrations on the crowded longhall’s floor.
“Welcome, strangers – enter the Realm of Centraxis and freedom!”
“Ooh, look! They’ve got a fire going!”
“She’s all waxed ‘n’ buffed ‘n’ oiled ‘n’ all – fully lubed ‘n’ ready t’ rip…”
“What’s ‘baba nam kevalam’ mean?”
“Avert thine unworthy gaze, varlet!”
“Can’t wait to floor ’er – take ’er all the way!”
“Turn up the music!”
“’Sa fuckin’ free cunt innit?”
“Summun turn on the lights…”
“But she’s the cat’s mother…”
“Fuck that’s strong!”
The shaman prince plunges deep and deeper with every second swollen thrust, retrieving his love from her Neverland to satisfy his mounting lust while Racheal returns to keep and keeper of her keenest, deepest trust, retrieving her flesh from the elder spirit, who flows aside as she knows she must from the young girl’s living clay. Ram’s lover gives him what he asks, responding with rhythmic moans and gasps she grips his shaft with viscid grasps and female masticating clasps of membranes, muscle and secret arcs of flesh made bliss on a florid barque; makes love on a lotus ’midst circling sharks their love must hold at bay.
“ ‘Don’t worry, be happy.’ ”
“Oh Arnie, Arnie…”
“Mayhap ’tis time to turn them on; one at least - dost ye reckon?”
“Yer want summa these?
“Told ya this’d be a great party…”
“Jesus is your best friend in all the world, sister…”
“Nah, want summa that!”
The entire building, street, city, the wide, wild world and multiplex universe share in the screaming annihilation of their rampaging climax. The blown away lovers are vaguely aware that Arné and Crystal are flying and singing from the same celestial libretto, vibrating and soaring through the same immortalising eternity of psychedelic Tantric immolation alongside and within their quivering beings.
The afterglow continues for an aeon of nirvana as they meld into a unity of unutterable bliss…
They slowly drift down the face of a receding wave, unreeling from hypnotic heights of utterly synchronous higher consciousness and the marvellous, intimately magical world gradually loses a layer of poise and poetry as flashes of light blind their faraway eyes. Colours dim and thoughts stop booming through the cavernous canyons of their intertwined minds as the sounds of the party bust through their reverie, bursting their bubble of mutual absorption with an audible POP as a champagne bottle lands somewhere nearby in the clotted darkness.
The young shaman’s eyes sliver open and he watches the Lady Racheal’s fey familiars revert to snakes which circle both her flushed pink breasts in shrinking spirals, poised to take a nibble on her shining nipples with an addiction no lesser taste can slake; juveniles entranced by mother, source of sauces - to life, love and each other as they orbit and twine round her silvery lunar orbs.
Racheal’s breasts are perfect satellites for her radiant face and her solar halo of firelit hair. He reaches to cup those orbiting orbs in supplicant upraised open palms and feels serpents entwine through his spreading fingers as her shockingly soft skin swells into his grasp. Conversations sail round the hall to skim through the orchestral chaos of minds and bodies and carom through the semiconscious chorus of singing bloodstreams - a rhythmic dance that imbues them all with unseen unity in a jostling, bustling, buzzing hive whose intricate harmony few can perceive and fewer believe.
“…doncha worry, that lamb knew what it was doin’...”
“Poodit away – you’ll avta fine wunnuya own.”
“We need to be staunch, man – we gotta hold the hardest line.”
“Less go home, darl – I don’ wanno more, less go t’bed.”
“…really, actually ban the bomb…”
“Hey, Bogart! Over here!”
“Y’got a nempty room?”
“All of it.”
“Fuck me dead!”
His Lady Racheal is more than a priestess, or even High Priestess; the White Goddess incarnate rears above him, a flowing glow of white gold in the shape of his woman. Her brow ignites in a glowing blue orb, a perfect match for the sapphire glints that gleam down at him from sockets of shadow in the lambent semidarkness. His mind’s eye fills in the darkest places, wreathing Her form with lines of energy, swirls of colour and webs of encoded meaning.
She keeps slowly riding, gliding down and upward through a psychedelic rapture of perpetual fulfilment, ribcage heaving and nostrils flaring with every deep breath. Her molten image doubles and redoubles with stroboscopic motion in his dazzled sight as her puckered aureoles swirl and ignite into spinning scarlet cartwheels - faithful mirror images of the blue-centred indigo orb that emerges at the centre of her fulsome brow. Paisley leaves shimmer through fluorescing rainbows that sprout from her margins and twist into turbulent tongues of multihued flame.
Her body reignites into motion and returns to its natural rhythm as Racheal strives for endless release from the lissom leash of tumultuous flesh. She bounces and squeezes ever more rapidly in an ascendant series of gasping breaths that guide her young man’s rhythmic impalements as he thrusts upward to meet each gripping, ringing, clenching grasp. Her hair is a writhing, living flame and fernery scrolls unwind and untwist through her vellum skin while perfect rolling fulsome breasts cartwheel toward his parted lips.
“You’re not my judge, mister, or anyone else’s.”
“How much d’ya wannit?”
Fingernails scratch past Ram’s ribs and scrape into his hips as his beloved forcibly pulls his crown right up through the gates of her unopened womb. Her cry is muffled by resonating blasts from overhead speakers that vibrate inside their deepest marrow as his eyes scrunch shut with overwhelming ecstasy; “Fulfil me!”
“Thy word is my command,” he thinks he says, then realises his mouth is crammed with a slippery tongue not his own, nor hers. A brilliant flash shines right through his eyelids, outlining an intricate tracery of blood-red webbing on a background of glowing carmine.
Like when you died, he tells himself.
Don’t think of that, he replies. Not now…
As another girl’s mouth slips away from Ram’s lips his eyes open to tripartite flags that spit flaming sparks in dizzying spirals around Racheal’s outstanding barber pole nipples; mesmeric icons that completely absorb his expanded attention… he forgets about wondering who he’d been kissing.
“Fuck me dead!”
“I still reckon she’s better in the dirt…”
“Less jus’ do it here.”
“Not on yer life!”
“Got the grunt fer it, that’s fer sure.”
“Turn up afuckin’ music!”
“Now wouldst be fitting.”
“We can crash here…”
Racheal releases a deep-seated groan that rears up from her loins to rip through her ramrod-filled belly, pours through the untamed tips of her flaming breasts and emerges through her wide open, swollen, blood-flushed lips in the full-throated rumble of a roaring lioness. Through deafening heartbeats all the noise in the outer world is stilled by her full throated roar.
It’s impossible to tell where word and thought end, where flesh and intention begin anew in the maelstrom of unbecoming. Everyone is an aspect of every one and every one is All. The cosmos is filled with onlooking eyes that witness each fleeing moment from unnumbered perspectives. As Ram’yana swims and swarms through his bride’s very marrow he can feel the attentive focus of lusty men and horny women slip to and fro round the liquid heat of their conjoined loins. He knows their teenage flesh shimmers and gleams with tantalising visibility in the crowded dimness of the Centraxian longhall.
When he glances over Racheal’s shoulder it’s immediately obvious that myriad eyes are affixed to her sleek erect frame. Other eyes flicker to and fro between Racheal and the younger red haired girl who crouches beside her, stroked and stoked by her lover in the chamber’s dark corner. Some frankly stare at the perfectly formed girls with unabashed longing or shocked arousal. Randomly overheard sentences mingle with crackling pops of blazing timber from a broken stack of borrowed fence palings while the intro to Atom Heart Mother blasts from overhead speakers.
“Upstairs is quieter… We could do it there…”
“I wouldna take ’er in the dirt i’ I was you, laddie.”
“What day is it?”
“I just want to give you a tarot reading, honest…”
“Freedom isn’t free ya know.”
“It’s just his karma…”
“…still in Cambodia…”
“Or the I Ching…”
The wills of multiple minds guide his hands around her supple, attractive shapeliness. He caresses her breasts at their behest while her torso bounces around the rolling, tugging spherical masses that bulge inside his grasping hands. His priestess/goddess reaches down to stroke his smooth chest. Fingertips tickle his belly and wander further to guide his thrusts. Her other hand guides his palm around the wondrous topology of her sensitive body. She seems fully recovered from all recent injury, miraculously aroused and utterly arousing – and strangely immune to all embarrassment in her almost unprecedented public carousing.
“Can’t help myself.”
“Yeah, I’ll have some…”
“Saints preserve us!”
“You got any smoko?”
“They’re still there – they never left.”
The priestess’s skin shines from within with preternatural gloaming as her lips curl into a dazzling smile. He watches the electric blue serpents descend her slim torso to twirl toward the torrid juncture where he’s melded into her, body and being. Her cylindrical clitoris stands erect as a miniature penis, tiny glans swelling beneath its foreskin’s little pink hood, flaring with magenta glows and radiant streaks of fiery crimson. Her sex is a blazing liquid orchid that flowers in darkness beneath her sparse mantle of closely cropped hair.
“…scratch that itch…”
‘Fuck her brains out…’
‘Fuck his brains out…’
‘Fuck my brains out!’
It’s impossible to tell whether thoughts or words are spoken or simply intended, or even merely imagined. Ram’s cock is a rearing lance thrusting all the way up into the solar furnace of his beloved bride-to-be’s innermost core. Her entire body pivots around it; the fulcrum centre of all her existence. Her panting breath becomes a torrid stream of wordless moans as she vibrates in motionless quivering heat – and he takes her by the hips and starts fucking her brains out.
“…an’ en’ ’e said ‘Wadya mean? Thass my daughter…”
“…a long drink of water…”
“She really makes a fuckin’ racket when she’s goin’ full throttle but.”
“Yeah – I could eat a munchkin or two.”
Racheal’s hands pull Ram’s palms upward and cup his fingers around her breasts. She totters forward to peck his lips and then heaves backward, sliding and bouncing as she regains her balance athwart his familiar well-oiled ramrod.
“As ye wish.”
“Hey man, far out! They got strippers at this fuckin’ party!”
“She comes in colours everywhere
She combs her hair
She’s like a rainbow
Come in colours in the air
She comes in colours…”
A surging rush swells in the roots of his spine and contracts all the orbs in his tightening scrotum. At that instant a grinding noise descends from above through a chorus of angelic choirs. A blinding indigo ray pours onto the floor in the centre of the room, limning half a dozen dancers in a blindingly brilliant thousand watt blaze.
“Nah, dumbo, I toll ya. But I still gotta mess with ’er alla time – can’t resist it…”
“Play the other side!”
“Can I take ’er for a spin after?”
The shaman prince’s eyes scrunch shut as a purple haze shifts through peachy hues to a bloodier shade of scarlet. By signs seen and unseen (but deeply felt) it’s obvious Racheal is coming astride him again, oblivious to the beast with a hundred eyes that caress her naked rainbow skin from all sides and angles in the sudden wash of bright electric light.
“Have you seen her dressed in blue?
Seen the sky in front of you?
And her face is like the a sail
In the bright sun white and pale
Have you seen a lady fairer?
She comes in colours everywhere
She combs her hair
She’s like a rainbow
Come in colours in the air
She comes in colours …”
Barely cognisant of the other nude couple revealed beside them, the teenage mage covers his lover’s flaming nipples within gently cupped palms while she moans and cries out in the unbridled throes of tripping, gripping, sheer flaming rush of utterly exposed ecstasy.
“Not strippers, man, trippers!”
“Fuck… lookit… wow…”
Racheal’s wild ululation is all but drowned out by an impromptu orchestra of appreciative yells, wolf whistles and ribald unpleasantries.
“Hookers, ya mean!”
“Get outta my way. I want what he’s havin’!”
Ram automatically circles their mingling auras with a ring of white fire when a ragged cheer erupts from a teetering mass of barely clothed flesh - a singleton unisex piebald beast composed of varying shades of pink, tan and white that shivers atop a forest of sapling legs in the off-centre hub of the longhall.
“Have you seen her all in gold
Like the queen in days of old?
She shoots colours all around
Like the sunset going down
Have you seen a lady fairer?
She comes in colours everywhere
She combs her hair
She’s like a rainbow
Come in colours in the air
She comes in colours…” +
Time slips and slides all over the place, a racing locomotive and a trackless crawl, impossible to gauge.
“I’m fuckin’ next!”
“Yer already fucked!”
The pubs and bars have spilled their effluent into the streets and a goodly amount has poured through the wide open squatters’ stronghold doors to wash up on the shores of the Centraxians’ post-initiation party.
“Fuckin’ hippies got their own fuckin’ brothel in ’ere!”
As a stark cerulean image of his beloved firms and resolves in Ram’s hallucinatory vision he blinks into the slowly shifting hues of the electric colour wheel he’d earlier set in place in the hall – before the LSD had transfigured all sense of time and space - and attempts to restrain the impending orgasm that threatens to stir from his roots as his lady crams his blazing engorgement right up into her hungry womb and screams as she comes, and comes, and screams again.
“Fuckin’ trippy in here, man!”
Another blistering flash lashes Ram’s eyes.
“Is this real real or trip real?”
Racheal’s ingrained image melts around the wondrous actuality of her nakedly bobbing form as she bucks higher, more deeply, more furiously.
“The keg’s in the kitchen – right through here, guys...”
“Plenty out back for everyone.”
The lovers ignore the thumping footsteps and flapping thongs that circle around them in a slow stampede towards a promised oasis of beer. Racheal’s mind is obviously blown into a hallucinatory torrent of orgasmic cinders. Her prince watches electric fireworks explode from her every pore and blaze through her tightly sealed eyelids as she fucks him like a frenzied animal. He closes his eyes to focus completely on the fantastic sensation of sliding and squeezing and thrusting within her; lost in the heavenly haven of Her.
“Put on the Stones!”
His shaft is sunk all the way into a living, livid, steamy vice that attempts to milk him utterly dry, and his only wish is to keep slipping and sliding through the absolute bliss of Racheal’s sweet flesh for unending eternity. He opens his eyes to drink in her beauty as she bounces and grinds in transfiguration, far gone in the thrall of sweet surrender to their magical animal mating rite.
“Too bright, man…”
“We can’t have run out yet!”
Ram keeps his eyes fixed on her pulsating eyelids and swallows a knot of tension into his belly. He concentrates only on pleasuring his climaxing girl - without coming and spoiling their ongoing reverie.
“Oh love! Ohh, fuck!”
He can’t tell if the words are his or hers, Arné’s or Crystal’s. He revels in Racheal’s onrushing ecstasy and in his goddess-given power to provide her with this undying eternity of bliss.
Making her come…
“Nah, mate, there’s only one fella who’s gonna get ta spin those wheels – too powerful, mate, too much -she’d just spin out on ya...”
“Let’s have more candles instead of the blinders.”
“…and the aliens don’t want to hurt us…”
“What happened to the dance music?”
“You can dance to anything.”
He follows each subtle cue provided by the extraordinarily sexual girl’s agile body, paying obeisance to her splendour with the attentive zeal of a true devotee. His pelvis rocks and thrusts in perfectly phased synchrony with the wondrously articulated requirements of his leonine High Priestess’s magical loins. Ram’yana is barely aware of the music that thrums and sweeps through the tunnelled-out rabbit warrens of the Centraxian squat in counterpoint to their continuous humping and bumping.
“Oh, oh, uh, uh, ahh, uhh…”
He’s entranced by the sudden bright sight and unparalleled feel of his lovely girl - completely intent on accelerating the oncoming. frenzy of her next glorious, mind-bending ultrafeminine climax.
For all to see…
When the fractiously challenging thought arrives he struggles to maintain his rhythmic plunging while a stony rockface of implied self-accusation reverberates through plasm and plasma, brain and bone. He moves through his beloved’s flesh with the familiar ease of a longstanding lover, impaling her to the beat of the music and the obvious thrill of all the voyeurs who sit or slouch or stand or dance in the suddenly illumined longhall.
“Maybe that’s a mite too much after all…”
“Nah, not enough…”
“…they just want to borrow out bodies…”
“Watch out for the bong!”
His hands grasp Racheal’s narrow waist to loft her higher, only stopping when her elastic entryway is balanced athwart his purpling crown - and immediately pulls her all the way back down until her pubic bone mashes against his to the accompaniment of her uninhibited primal scream.
“Prithee make up thine mind.”
“Yanks’re a real pain inna friggin’ arse.”
“Come inside, it’s cold out there…”
“Fuck the Yanks.”
Racheal’s cheeks blaze through rainbow tattoos of labyrinthine curlicues that cover her face and glide down her throat and over her shoulders. Her agile body begins fucking for both of them, squatting astride her horny beau and racing up and down his full thick length with a rapid bombardment of grasping strokes. Tendrils weave criss-cross maypole patterns around her throat, twisting into resurgent snakes that drive downward and inward to surround her bouncing, rolling, transforming breasts with intricate Celtic knot patterns.
“Y’wanna join in, darl?”
“Come on, I won’t wreck ’er or nothin’.”
“They can only borrow mine if they look like that.”
Thought forms spiral about the dazzling brightness of the prince’s paramour as blithering partygoers continue pronouncing sentences around and about their interlocked rollicking forms.
“The Tree of Life bears many fruits…”
“Satan’s throbbing fucking nuts!” a deep voice booms from behind and above, “I’m gonna get some! Hold on, I’m comin’!”
A True Story
- R. A.
Images – author’s
+ She Comes in Colours lyrics copyright The Rolling Stones
Further true tales of the Prince of Centraxis -
And for further enlightenment see
The New Illuminati – http://nexusilluminati.blogspot.com
The Her(m)etic Hermit http://hermetic.blog.com/
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The Prince of Centraxis – http://centraxis.blogspot.com