Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll 25
He was her paramour, her first and foremost. She admired him like no other. He was usually the epitome of genteel strength, but she could never forget the scene she’d witnessed when he was unaware she was watching. Even as fractured flashes of sights and sensations blur through her twisting being the unwanted memory rises through her phantasmagorical trip; an undispelled spectre.
The ginger cat had snuck into the archery yard through a wisteria-covered gap in the makeshift wall of broken brick, reused lumber and torn cyclone fencing. The priestess was watching her lover when she noticed the bright orange feline saunter through the permeable sight barrier of the Centraxian base’s rear boundary with the mundane world. It squinted at the slim youth who stood facing the blank expanse of a high brick wall, and she watched its clandestine approach from the window of Li Po’s chamber - overlooking the fractured remnants of demolished homes in a barren allotment.
The tribal priestess closed her eyes. She freed her imagination and placed her awareness in the location of the cat, riding its perspective through jumbles of rubble.
The transition to feline form was surprisingly easy. In a trice she viewed her lover from an entirely new vantage, prowling slowly through an urban wasteland filled with pungent scents and high pitched insect whining. She watched the long haired primate grip the recurving spring of a composite bow in one fisted hand as he launched a metal-shafted arrow at a shadowy figure which stood at the brick wall’s base. Her feline perceptions penetrated his clothing and she felt her blood pulse at the sight of rippling musculature shining through a velvet veil. She felt the cat cringe amidst a clutter of broken bricks and thirsty weeds as twin sounds – the thrum of the bow and the almost simultaneous thunk of the arrow sinking into its target – alerted it to uncertain danger.
“Shot!” another long haired manimal yelled in approval from a mound of timeworn masonry, slouching well to the rear of the archer. His shout shocked the cat into sinking onto its belly to observe the milieu from a warm pool of sand. It watched the older man nod enthusiastically before he dipped his head into the breeze to sip some brew from a steaming ceramic cup.
Just as the cat began to tense in preparation for a hasty departure the youth loosed another shaft. A loud crack resounded as the shadowy figure - who stood before a baled stack of hay - immediately spun around and fell to the ground with a rickety clatter. “Getting too easy at this range,” the smirking observer commented. “Thou needst a moving target, young mage. Oh look – how opportune! Here’s one now, even as we speak...”
The archer glanced at the creature before swinging around to face his critic. “Surely ye jest. ’Tis a living cat, milord.”
“Then imagine it to be a rabbit. No? What if thou maketh use of one of those blunt shafts – they’re useless for anything else. I recall the attendant assured us they’d simply knock a varmint out instead of killing it – to keep the pelt intact.”
“With a target bow, mayhap,” the wiccan priestess’s young lover agreed as he fingered the rubberised alloy handgrip of his bow, “but not with this. ’Twould be uncommonly cruel.”
“Nonsense, Ram’yana! Just pull it halfway back – compensating for the distance will be good practice.” The archer scrutinised the cringing feline with upraised eyebrow. The priestess-inhabited cat eyed him in return from behind a small clump of dandelions; she felt its consternation as it become aware its flimsy cover was blown. She felt it gauge the distance to the nearest available exit. “That bow will have to be blooded soon – and thy sword, I daresay, forsooth!”
The slender teenage mage ran long beringed fingers through his wavy chestnut locks. “’Tis a magical weapon, my liege – as is this bow. Not intended for…”
“Aye, damned argumentative sprog – Zen archery and all that. Spare me the details. But if the time comes when thy bow is truly needed what will transpire then, eh, my diffident vegetarian princeling? When ’tis thee or them?” His deep brown eyes abruptly swung to the chain link gates, where a quintet of identically uniformed schoolgirls regarded the hippies from the urban world outside the Centraxian compound.
His beckoning wave was an invitation they studiously ignored as they eyed the prince from the shadows of identical straw boaters. “I think they want to watch thy muscles ripple while ye draw thine powerful hunting bow”, he suggested in feigned sotto voce. The priestess grimaced internally while the cat flattened its ears.
“Mayhap we shoudst ensure they know of this weekend’s celebration,” the older man advised in a voice loud enough to be easily heard over the incessant rumble of traffic. The young prince stepped off the mark and gave the girls an offhand salute as he crossed the yard to retrieve his arrows. Only one shaft was buried in the straw backing; the rest had ultimately combined to finally shatter the fibreglass breast of the unisex mannequin target.
The store dummy had already withstood many weeks of target practice by various Centraxian archers and was still intact enough for at least one more volley. Ram’yana placed a knee-length boot on the mannequin’s belly and heaved the arrows free before restoring the damaged figure to its widely spaced stance, securing it in position with a length of hempen rope.
He was visibly surprised to see the schoolgirls were still staring from the gate, silent and watchful, when he turned to cross the rubble-strewn yard. The Lord Kha-Aan had slipped off inside the squatters’ buildings and the prince seemed preternaturally aware of ten attentive eyes locked upon him as he inhaled an oily-tasting lungful of industrious city air. He slowly raised the bow above his head and drew it into a rainbow curve, bending his knees to adopt Horse Stance. Both eyes remained wide open as he pulled the bow down and apart until a feather tickled his cheek, all in a single fluid motion.
The priestess could tell he was proudly aware of the attention his stance was attracting from the younger females – a giggly gaggle of uniformly winsome teens who still dwelt in the deceptively sweet bosom of the outer mundane world. The cat scratched a flea from its ear, glad of the respite from (external) scrutiny.
Breath swept from Ram’s nostrils a moment after the shaft was loosed. The cat almost leapt out of its skin as the priestess tried to hold it in place and simultaneously concentrate on her lover. An arrow protruded from the mannequin’s forehead and it rocked backward and forth on the spot. She saw that Ram’yana was obviously titillated to hear the girls’ indrawn gasps, but he appeared genuinely embarrassed when a polite round of applause echoed from the brickwork. As he gave the girls a courtly bow she noticed Kha-Aan leaning down from the upper floor’s front balcony above them.
The prince turned and sank six more shafts into the dummy in rapid succession, lifting each arrow in turn from the sand and concrete dust at his feet. When he twisted around to meet their gazes he seemed unsurprised to see the girls turn away from the broad locked gates and walk off in a plaid cotton scrum. A pretty little redhead gave him a brisk wave and a grinning wink as she scampered down the footpath after her friends. They all disappeared behind a rusted sheet of corrugated iron and the archer’s lover watched him subtly seethe; she was certain his angst was due to the likelihood that Kha-Aan had somehow scared the girls away.
The priestess cat unsheathed her claws and hunkered down, pawing the dry city soil. When her lover returned to the mark the ginger feline still lurked in the periphery of his vision. Without conscious volition he picked up one of the blunt-tipped wooden shafts he’d held in reserve and knocked it to the bow.
The Lady Racheal spun back into her body and her human eyes snapped open as her fingernails clawed at the cracked paint of the neglected window frame. Ram’yana had managed to lower his aim at the last instant and the arrow skittered just above the uneven ground, directly between the legs of the cat – who leaped into the air and fell back to all fours when the arrow had shot beneath it. The ginger hunter gave the prince a furious look before rushing from the yard, fleeing the unpredictably mad and downright dangerous barely domesticated primate, who’d sent a falcon’s feathers streaking between its legs.
It had been a brief encounter, but as she returned from her reverie – re-entering the phantasmagorical, indescribable, utterly confusing and riveting and enlighteningly prescient present of her post-initiatory LSD trip - the new High Priestess was certain that the young red haired schoolgirl had returned to the Centraxian squat after all. The Lady Racheal was sure the grinning girl was the runaway nymphette they’d both found in their bed; the all too radiant young Crystal, whose enviably perfect little body now rubbed against her naked thigh in the stronghold’s crowded longhall.
“He was bumped ’cause a Pine Gap, yer drongo.” Screaming guitars and weeping mandolins flood the darkened chamber with glistening waterfalls of glissandos. “Lucky ’e wasna bumped off.”
“I must be dreaming,” another voice declares. Quavering notes pour through quivering bodies from electrified harps that sing from on high. “That’s cool… it’s a business doing pleasure with you.”
The prince beams up at the glowing argent form of his surprisingly uninhibited beloved. “Always better to grab it on the run.” Snippets of converse and fragments of music form a barely perceived synchronistic soundtrack for the thoroughly ripped and newly initiated High Priestess’s sensuous flight of fancy. “She’s a genuine hot rod, man - a real goer!” Blaring vehicles provide a deafening horn section beyond the barred windows, underlying the encompassing strains of psychedelic rock; amply augmenting glittering filigrees of electrified viola and high pitched violin.
“A bird in the hand’s worth two inna bush.”
“Don’t they ever take a break?”
Voices of friends and strangers warp and weft through dovetailing trails of unseen discussions. “Try some of this…” Nuances warble through a fire-shot haze of smoky candlelit gloom and ricochet from the graffito covered, poster-clad walls. “I didn’t know you’d been bush, bud.”
Frayed threads of meanings interpenetrate the virtually impenetrable sheath that surrounds the young lovers’ psychedelically enhanced conjugation. “…like a mushroom cloud going off…” Steamy bodies twist, bounce, plunge, rock and roll to a tempo decreed by unseen DJs on the second floor of the partying squatters’ stronghold. “…and the ghost looked like it was covered with scales, I kid thee not…”
“’N’en ’ey come runnin’ at me when I dives onna…” Each overlapping sentence gives birth to a mélange of strikingly vivid images. “I tell ya, it’s a goodun if you can get the parts workin’ together jus’ right…” 3D movies woven from tapestries of light fill the colour-shot darkness with fractal oil paintings and watercolour cartoons. “Sounds like fun, but what do you do for a living?” Fleet images echo synchronous word strings of illuminating pearls with illustrative epic tales. “Can we throw a little more light on the subjects?”
“Can’t stop starin’ at ’em,” Ram’yana hears the voices chime as his eyes descend from his Lady Racheal’s rapturous features to follow the hypnotic sway of her firm lolling breasts. “Y’look really weird - feeling cool, darl? Hot?”
Most the visiting partygoers are as thoroughly discombobulated as the majority of the Centraxian court, who are all tripping off their collective gourds; stoned, drunk, enlightened, blinded and sozzled to a variety of degrees and in a number of ways. “Classic, man, classic, she just screams when you floor ’er…”A chorus of drunken laughter bubbles into a driving chant; “Stroke, stroke, stroke, stroke…” and reverts to chortling giggles even more swiftly. “Wow, uh, I uh… can’t feel m’legs…” Racheal’s thighs are silken pillars that stroke his legs with undulant undine motions.
“Legless, mate?”
The prince is utterly captivated by his amazingly demonstrative and devoted young bride, astounded at his lady’s unperturbed enthusiasm in this unheralded public demonstration of their love. Synchronous conversations seem to go on and on, within them and without them; “Course, whenever the pigs see ’er they’re all over ’er like a rash.” The blithe teenage Wiccan’s thoroughly revealed beauty looms luminous above Ram’s equally exposed nakedness.
“He spent everything he had on that addiction.”
The Lady Racheal rises and falls amidst pinwheels of shooting stars, eclipsing all the mundane world with the flawless seamlessness of her brilliantly fluorescing skin, the tumultuous press of sleek orgasmic flesh, the lashing whips of her bounding blonde mane.
“It’s my birthday mate!”
“Good timing, bro. You plan it this way?”
Her movements are timed to his every wish, mirroring the ceaseless billows of the other girl’s succulent breast as it’s propelled against his ribcage with each thrust of her enthusiastically plunging boyfriend. Arne moans with pleasure as he reams the diminutive teen on the same slender mattress and Crystal’s wordless cry screams through arrant streams of cascading words.
“Oh, man, I gotta get summa that…”
The Lady Racheal electrifies her young man’s senses with entrancingly transcendent touches, strokes, caresses and squeezes.
“It took ages t’ tune ’er up– really lean.”
She roars a barely articulate version of her lover’s name as she bears down with all the inner strength of her precociously talented musculature; “Rarrh…”
“How’s it hangin’?”
“One step from blithering oblivion.”
“The Nazis are still behind it all…”
“You callin’ Arne a Nazi?”
A blinding flash sears a vision of Racheal’s open-mouthed reverie into Ram’s retinas – an image that twists and inverts into Rorschach patterns of Day-Glo moths and Art Nouveau butterflies. “Don’ innerrupt ’em now – jus’ dig it...”
Ram’yana gradually distils a constantly recurring theme of obvious truths from the endless stream of oblivious whispers, catcalls and blaring lyrics. The gorgeous new High Priestess of the tribe is the focus of a multitude of mesmerised minds that delineate her movements and outline her destiny while they watch her riding to another climactic explosion.
“Then yer better climb inta yer birthday suit, too… or hers, maybe…” He watches as Racheal’s afterimage floats above her shoulder, morphing into the fey tattooed form of a naked Gaelic princess. “An historical gathering to be sure, to be sure.” He blinks to dispel the blinding vision and tries to focus on her sealed eyelids through sea-dark swirls, willing her eyes to open to his loving regard.
“The poor white lamb was trussed up and sacrificed on the altar of greed and power, man.”
“Ewe must be kidding…”
The Lady Racheal’s alluring presence attracts the attentive gazes of a seeming multitude of inebriated revellers who attend her post-initiation celebration; tribe members, friends, associates and strangers alike repeatedly glance or continually stare at the shadowed nook where she cries out and rides her flagrantly aroused young man. Multifaceted consciousness shatters and reforms all around them in glissandos of broken meaning.
“They’ll never come out.”
“How’s she handle when you press it to the floor?”
“Like a dream…” Like a dream, Ram’s mind echoes as the words are mouthed by Racheal’s lips; “…within a dream…”
“…Mine ewe, it takes a lot to fill ’er up…”
He’s vaguely aware of the unabashed visitors and less jaded tribe members who observe the tripping teenage priestess with fixated attentiveness, while she celebrates ascension to her courtly role in the most demonstrative manner imaginable. Her beauty flares above him in a momentary glare of blinding light - an angel descending from graffiti-coloured clouds. “We want rock and roll!”
“Just a couple more shots.”
“Didja ask first?”
“Be rude t’ interrupt ’em, right?”
Ram’yana slowly begins to realise his tripping lady may have little idea of where they are or what she’s doing. He pulls Racheal closer to conceal the magnetising charms of her naked breasts and trim muscular underbelly from the onlooking hoi polloi.
“Must be worth heaps, huh?”
“Priceless…”
He’s instantly smitten by the indescribable texture of her fulsome breasts, rolling and mashing round his hairless chest as her hips heave upward and plunge back down, over and again, with irresistible wilfulness. “Rache…” he breathes inside her ear as he matches her thrusts like a pneumatically responsive automaton. Her reply is a wordless moan that warbles in harmony with another shrill cry.
“Ooh… everything’s vibrating…” the high pitched voice murmurs from close nearby. Crystal, he realises as her cheek rubs against his shoulder and her lips smear across the tattoo above his bicep. Her body rocks against his with rhythmic pulses that match a rising flurry of lowing moans. Her uninhibited groans almost smother the song which flows through the hall where the High Priestess plights her recumbent betrothed.
*
‘Come and see the real thing, come and see the real thing, come and see
Come and see the real thing, come and see the real thing, come and see
There’s a meaning there, but the meaning there doesn’t really mean a thing…’
*
“Eve was the one who first ate of the fruit…”
“Now they’re all getting into the act!”
“Into role…”
The shaman prince basks in bliss as two feminine mouths simultaneously begin caressing his cheeks and take slow, sumptuous turns suckling at his lips and tongue. All his senses sing with a fabulous delight that endures as a glittering, ecstatic scintillation after Crystal’s lips are swept away by Arne’s overwhelming enthusiasm. Racheal’s kiss becomes a flaring beacon that lights his way while their bodies entwine as two sinuous serpents, winding and writhing as one. She swings upward and sways astride her mount as her hair flays the air with roseate streaks, statuesque liberty incarnate.
*
‘Come and see the real thing, come and see the real thing, come and see
I am the real thing!’
*
Ram’yana floats on the border of Samadhi, gazing up at his brazen young mate through bliss-slitted eyes while his body rocks beneath her; Racheal’s shadowy expression mirrors his own. Twin sapphire glints glitter down from her undulating silhouette, blinking off more oft than on.
“Got the best seat inna house.”
Maybe she has no idea… Ram’yana vibrates between disparate poles of protectiveness and possessiveness as he rides the wild waves that carry him all the way into and through his lover.
One of his beringed hands slides from her body and searches the mattress for a scrap of material to conceal her nudity. He forgets the quest when his fingers brush against another soft expanse of firm young female nakedness and slide across the other girl’s rhythmically swinging breast. The unexpected tactile encounter is completely disorientating. His fingers automatically close around the unfamiliar swaying orb of milk-soft flesh, clinging for purchase in a kinaesthetic storm of embroiling emotions.
“She has y’mean…”
“…we’re a tribe, not a commune…”
“That bird has no bush…”
He plunges all the way up inside his breathless paramour with a burst of renewed vitality while Crystal’s breast squeezes between his fingers like a globe of tightly wrapped jelly, pulling to and fro in his semi-gentle grip. Flames leap from the fireplace in a roar of laughter that seems directly aimed at his pounding heart.
Dozens of faces swing about in a milling mob that seems to recede to infinity, mouths agape and eyes all slitted against the sudden glare. One hirsute face remains fixed on the lovers with stoic intensity. While a fellow traveller sporting an identical heraldic footie vest turns to follow his gaze, the moustachioed man’s voice pierces the tumult with laserlike clarity;
“Two inna hand – save some fer later!”
“Just dig the vibes, man, the vibes!”
*
‘Oo mama mow-mow Oo mama mow-mow Oo mama mow-mow Oo mama mow-mow
Oo mama mama mama mama mama mama mow…’
*
Racheal’s body dips down, obscuring the world with a tickling veil of swaying hair. Her nipples are the blazing caps of rigid acorns burning meandering pathways along Ram’s smooth chest. He releases Crystal’s breast and reaches down to caress Racheal’s sides, her back and her flanks, covering swathes of naked white skin with his long freckled arms while the sounds of the party wash over them. “Ramshes!” she hisses in a slurring susurrus. Her breasts unstick from his sweaty chest as she rears back upward. Her body is the living Tree of Life, swaying above his earthy arousal.
“…the biggest flood ever…”
“She looks just like Sissy Spacek.”
She flings her head from side to side to free her face from a clinging mat of amber strands as another blast of actinic light reveals every alluring detail of her feminine loveliness - freezing her face into a mask of audacious lust, haloed by an emblazoned mane of hypnogogic flaming waves.
“…whatever gets yer up inner morning…”
Her afterimage quickly fades while the prince caresses his lady’s silken skin, inside and out, and ponders the bright flash’s provenance; Someone’s found the strobe?
“Witch one?”
Ram’s mind soars and streaks from word to deed, thought to flesh, waxing slightly more aware of details that slowly emerge at the margins of the lovers’ darkness-cloistered hallucinatory surrounds. Flickering firelight wreathes Racheal’s form in a scintillating mantle. He feels shimmering trails of intense concentration probe beyond the flaring margins of their interleaved auras to penetrate their interlocking titian flesh.
*
‘Tryin’ hard to understand the meaning that you’ll see in me
Tryin’ hard to understand the meaning that you’ll see in me
There’s a meaning there, but the meaning there doesn’t really mean a thing…’
*
“Badlands or Carrie?”
“Gimmea swig!”
“Just breathe deep – go with it…”
“Getcher own!”
It’s hard to tell which voice is male or female, young or older. He follows the interweaving phantasmic advice and takes a deep breath as both his hands surround her bouncing breasts.
*
‘Come and see the real thing, come and see the real thing, come and see
I am the real thing!’
*
He feels everything his lover feels and watches his body move with her every motion; feels her feeling and thinking the same as he, responding to every slight nuance - sensing fingers of eyesight playing across their hypersensitised bodies while they mate in the shadowy corner of the tribal longhall. Another blinding flash sears her shapely outline into his retinas as his eyes squeeze shut.
“So now we got a fuckin’ sheep shagger instead of a lamb, huh?”
“The blonde one, silly.”
“Jus’ another puppet of the Wanks…”
Racheal wrings him with rippling rings of smooth tight muscle. Her wise young body squeezes and milks him as she rises to his summit and quivers atop his crown. The confluence of inebriated minds alerts him to the multileveled oracular import – intended and otherwise - of the piecemeal phrases which cascade about them like a tumbling avalanche of multifaceted gems and twinkling nuggets.
“Straight upstairs, there ye go, the top of the flight...”
“Always better if you run ’em lean…”
“You got enough shots in there?”
Almost completely absorbed in the crushing rush of Racheal’s superheated sex, he nonetheless senses the smooth little body rocking beside him, almost completely shaded from sight and awareness by the dark-dappled form of his priestess’s nude torso as she writhes atop and astride him.
“Yeah, if the batteries last.”
*
‘There’s a meaning there, but the meaning there doesn’t really mean a thing
Come and see the real thing, come and see the real thing, come and see
I am the real thing!’
*
His whetted shaft cools in a breezy draft as her hands press his fingers tighter and harder into and around her ripe taut orbs. Sounds of slapping flesh emerge from the gloom and he hears the unmistakeable sound of Arne Stook’s cry not an arm’s length away; “Oh, fuck, oh Chrissie!”
“…just a hank, a bone, a shank of hair…”
The Lady Racheal’s sighs and gasps become moans and cries as she rockets back down and up, mounting the saddle of her prince’s hips. She bucks astride him, riding his rigid pommel through a creamy, fleshy dream as she paces herself between the rearing peaks of oncoming psychedelic orgasms.
*
‘Tryin’ hard to understand the meaning that you’ll see in me
Tryin’ hard to understand the meaning that you’ll see in me…’
*
“…then ’ey can go for fuckin’ ages…”
She dives and drives and directs his thrusts, following ingrained tracks of age-old wisdom stored in her nubile young body. Wafting heat that bathes his shaft from the nearby fireplace as she bounces upward is inconsequential compared to the solar blaze that fills Racheal’s trim body each time she envelopes his blood hot virility.
“A blonde anna bloodnut!”
Racheal’s firm thighs clench Ram’s bony hips and her knees dig into the narrow strait of his midriff. A cool draft washes one side of their bodies while the fire’s heat warms the other. Crystal’s saliva cools on his neck as Arne lifts her body right of the mattress and displays her fey form in the firelight.
“Cool – an’ hot!”
“She comes gallopin’ round th’ pack at th’ quarter mile and holds on all the way ’til she gets to th’ fuckin’ straight…”
“Think they’re gonna swap?”
*
‘Oo mama mow-mow Oo mama mow-mow Oo mama mow-mow Oo mama mow-mow Oo mama mow-mow…’
*
He watches Arne and Crystal turn as one to stare at the priestess who writhes above him with a serpentine weaving, impaled to the hilt with white eyed abandon. Through slitted eyes he sees trailing blonde strands slide along sleek perspiration-slicked shoulders as Racheal contracts and releases with spasmodic clenching, far gone in a high flying trance. The unmarked white parchment of her skin swims with convoluted serpentine forms in the throbbing dark. Quasi-phallic shapes mimic the shifting shadows of medusa strand hair in the crackling hiss of flickering flames from the rekindled fireplace.
“Ohh mumma!”
“Then really loses it when it comes inta th’ curves, huh? Goes for broke…”
“Baby!”
“…hits the wall an’ goes right thru it!”
Sperm-like tadpoles metamorphose into sinuous snakes which sprout unreeling wings and curling limbs as they twist into dragons, coiling and recoiling in blasts of heat that flare all the way up inside the slim muscular ridges of Racheal’s ineluctably clutching belly.
“Y’d think that’s gotta hurt.”
Half the swarming menagerie turns tail, races down Racheal’s slender thighs and spins round her calves and ankles.
*
‘I am not seeing you
I am not seeing you
Ahhhhh!
I am the real thing!”
*
“Someone open a window!”
Remnant amphibians coalesce into pulsating shapes in the ruddy flush of the witch girl’ racing bloodstream and sink into the milky warmth of her breasts and belly; others erupt from her trailing hair and cavort in the cavernous region above the place of their rhythmic trysting.
“I ain’t a racist but y’gotta watch ’em y’know…”
Manmade lightning illumines her skin with a brilliantine gloss in the deafening din as she quivers in shock and shivers within on the sheer brink of glories that shimmer and spin and growl and roar from sky to floor as she busts asunder perception’s cracked door. She blinks in the glare, drinks in his stare as burning fires inside her flare and soundlessly screams through a nimbus of dreams and stellar beams as a serpentine tor from times of yore bursts and seethes in her deepest core. Forms meld and flux as her body bucks with succulent sucks and grasping fucks beyond mires and mores of muckety-mucks to the blaze of love at the very crux where curving lines meet and beat and greet as molten meat in the succulent heat making love, not war, on the longhall’s floor at the dazzling edge of infinity’s shore.
Fauns and nymphs cavort about and a drunken satyr leers and shouts, wheezes nutty fumes breathing all the way out as he bends to lower his bristly snout and tousle her hair and give a soft clout while he laughs in her blazing, glazing face, ambassador from another place.
His lips curl apart and teeth peer out while horns atop him curl and sprout and words pour out in a leery shout from the gurgling depths of the beery lout; “Hey, man, am I trippin’ or what?”
*
A True Story
- R. A.
Images – Author’s
The Real Thing lyrics copyright by Russell Morris
Further true tales of the Prince of Centraxis -
AND
And for further enlightenment see
The New Illuminati - http://newilluminati.blog-city.com/
The Her(m)etic Hermit http://hermetic.blog.com/
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The Prince of Centraxis – http://centraxis.blogspot.com
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