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Violent Delights
Main Ingredients:
acquaintance
warrior princess
apricot
kale
night club
Spice Pack:
1/3 cup of remorse
1/4 teaspoon of acceptance
Sweet citrus coats the air, collects juices ‘round the chin, tastes like warm evenings spent in the castle’s once-dungeons-now-kitchens.
Apricot.
Not savoured enough. Impossible to savour now--in this crowded night club, bodies swaying to twining beats, sweat tainting saccharine memory with its pungency, its urgency for release.
Nothing inside of me seems to desire freedom from its captivity.
Bodily fluids or otherwise….
Instead, like converted castle kitchens, there is a longing stone-deep, bone-deep, for imprisonment no amount of apricots and their fragrance can disguise. Some things cling more than others.
Kale, for instance, a castle garden favourite and common companion to apricot treats, just has a taste that doesn’t stick. Perishes in the oubliette, perhaps. Forgotten.
Staying power is reserved for those ingredients whose aromas are sharp, able to cut through the mind’s metal trap and lodge themselves in something vital. Through the hypnotic din of a club’s live act and urge the blade tucked up one sleeve to slide down in hand.
Princesses may linger in castle kitchens and be fed sliced sweets but not ones who's birthright is also war. No, their place is in the dungeon--feeding it.
Warrior princesses don’t dance it night clubs, meet the gaze of a pretty pair of eyes across the swivel and sway of bodies and invite them near with a smile. No, they lure with a predatory slash of pearly whites, blade freed from its sleeve but at home in the dark of a club’s dimmed lights.
Acquaintance is made for the sake of my mandate, mantle--blood. Like apricots, it is not savoured. Cannot possibly be. Not now. So, like kale, it must be made to forget. Lured into the deepest, darkest part of any dungeon--the pit. Prepared first--chopped or diced,my preference--and then tossed into the hole--the bowl. Not in sacrifice but for satisfaction, for placating the growl of empty stomach.
⅓ cup of of remorse. ¼ teaspoon of acceptance.
This is the recipe for omnicide.
It begins with you.
acquaintance
warrior princess
apricot
kale
night club
Spice Pack:
1/3 cup of remorse
1/4 teaspoon of acceptance
Sweet citrus coats the air, collects juices ‘round the chin, tastes like warm evenings spent in the castle’s once-dungeons-now-kitchens.
Apricot.
Not savoured enough. Impossible to savour now--in this crowded night club, bodies swaying to twining beats, sweat tainting saccharine memory with its pungency, its urgency for release.
Nothing inside of me seems to desire freedom from its captivity.
Bodily fluids or otherwise….
Instead, like converted castle kitchens, there is a longing stone-deep, bone-deep, for imprisonment no amount of apricots and their fragrance can disguise. Some things cling more than others.
Kale, for instance, a castle garden favourite and common companion to apricot treats, just has a taste that doesn’t stick. Perishes in the oubliette, perhaps. Forgotten.
Staying power is reserved for those ingredients whose aromas are sharp, able to cut through the mind’s metal trap and lodge themselves in something vital. Through the hypnotic din of a club’s live act and urge the blade tucked up one sleeve to slide down in hand.
Princesses may linger in castle kitchens and be fed sliced sweets but not ones who's birthright is also war. No, their place is in the dungeon--feeding it.
Warrior princesses don’t dance it night clubs, meet the gaze of a pretty pair of eyes across the swivel and sway of bodies and invite them near with a smile. No, they lure with a predatory slash of pearly whites, blade freed from its sleeve but at home in the dark of a club’s dimmed lights.
Acquaintance is made for the sake of my mandate, mantle--blood. Like apricots, it is not savoured. Cannot possibly be. Not now. So, like kale, it must be made to forget. Lured into the deepest, darkest part of any dungeon--the pit. Prepared first--chopped or diced,
⅓ cup of of remorse. ¼ teaspoon of acceptance.
This is the recipe for omnicide.
It begins with you.