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31 October 2005 @ 09:09 pm
Growing cold from burning wounds

Your world I will consume

Burrowing into your tomb

Plant my seed inside your womb

I will consume

Growing old from world’s deceit

Your lies I will repeat

Reflecting on your soul’s defeat

I’ll stomp your world with vengeful feet

I will repeat

My mind begins to flood

With the knowledge of your state

I will intrude your blood

And test your love with hate

Secretly obsessive as you adulate

Growing dead from your own lies

Your death I will deny

Torment this slowly as you cry

I know its love will never die

I will deny

Growing fearful of our fate

Such terror I could sedate

If the soul could kill its hate

Choose the one before it grows too late

I could sedate

My mind begins to flood

With the knowledge of your state

I will intrude your blood

And test your love with hate

Secretly obsessive as you adulate

Choking, sick on endless webs

The skins that I will shed

Witnessing all sorrow’s end

Soon the conscience will grow dead

My skin will shed

Choking deep, the love you brought

Your mask I will let rot

Disguises of your secret plots

Obsession forming all your thoughts

You mask will rot

My mind begins to flood

With the knowledge of your state

I will intrude your blood

And test your love with hate

Secretly obsessive as you adulate

N.C., Pornographic Suicide, Adulation
24 October 2005 @ 08:28 pm
The savor of orgasm resounded through his body as they lay nestled together, her head to his chest, arms and legs surrounding him, passing all residual energies into each other. It was then that he noticed another face peaking through the wide, marble doorway. Her gaze was big and blue as she stared into his smiling eyes. Eros could see the nipples of her overflowing breasts, still soft, beneath her greenish gown. Her auburn hair hung passed the smoothness of her shoulders and he noticed a thick patch at the center of her rather shapely hips. Her lips were large, lending an excess of voluptuousness.

The Petite One at his side looked up, noticing the fascination of his stare, and as she did she smiled, lustfully, almost wickedly, at this girl, who seemed to Eros the very embodiment of all lusciousness. The only real contrast to this excessive sensuality was the look of vulnerability and innocence to her big, bright blue eyes. The Petite One rose from the comfort of his embrace and for a moment the two young girls simply stared at one another. Eros noticed the depth of breath in the face of the Blue Eyed One as she let her gown slip swiftly from her shoulders. She gasped suddenly, as the Petite One rushed her, pinning her against the white marble of the open doorway, kissing and licking whorishly at the fullness of her smooth, womanish body. A hand was shoved roughly between her thighs, and as she cried out her moans were stifled by the hungering mouth of this little nymph. Eros could see the orgasm in the quivering and shuddering of her hips.

When the peak was finished they both turned to him and, noticing the hardness of his desire for them, the Petite One, the Nymph, reached out in a gesture of beckoning. He went to her and she pulled the Voluptuary One gently aside as the blue eyed beauty stared back with seeming innocence. Eros propped himself against the wall and as he did his hazel eyed nymph nudged her ripe, oversexed companion to her knees. She gazed up at him and the sting of her innocence only furthered the passion of his want of her. He felt the suppleness of her lips as she placed soft, maddening kisses to the hardness aching in her smooth grip. He ran his fingers through the softness of her curls and as he did she closed her eyes, taking the fullness of his phallus into her mouth, gently forcing it all to the back of her throat with parted lips. He let out a long sigh as she began slowly sucking, as her head pulled back with the flow of this act of coaxing in submissive intimacy. She continued on in this deliberate and infuriating rhythm until the Little Nymph pulled her away. As they walked toward the bed Eros found himself savoring in the striking differences of their beauty.

Taking the Blue Eyed Voluptuary by the hand the Little Nymph guided her onto the bed. And there she waited for Eros on hands and knees, the smoothness of her backside spread out before him like some luscious and inviting flower. The Nymph ran her delicate hands all along this flower and the Oversexed Voluptuary moaned like a grown woman. She gazed at him and smiled and it was all that he could take and he went to her, and she found herself yielding entirely to the frantic slamming of his hips. Her moans were deeper, more womanly, than those of the Hazel Eyed Nymph, who had commenced to kissing and sucking at his neck.

And then it was that Eros sodomized them both, one after the other…
21 October 2005 @ 05:44 pm
How had he forgotten all that was? Nameless faces, sleepless hours. He sailed through voices, whispers, hinting at his heart. What had he forgotten? What was lost? What had become? The fluttering of wings suddenly became a roar and he wondered, were these the wings of demons surfacing from out the fog of innocence? Darkness to all eyes which do not see…

~N.C., Pornographic Suicide, The Dark Muse
18 October 2005 @ 06:08 pm
The night was endless as I walked the desert sand in search of any and all that I could find. I’d left the ocean far behind me as my journeys there within had ended long ago. I knew not how long I’d walked the desert night in mindless pursuit, until it was that anticipation took its proper place on the seat of consciousness and I knew that discovery would soon play its natural part in the forthcoming of all that I would soon become. All that would become a part of me.

~N.C., Pornographic Suicide, The River
11 October 2005 @ 09:11 pm
There was something I felt that needed to be done, though I could not quite place to what significance, nor precisely what it was. I walked these cold and misty London streets through myriad faces clad in black and shaded by a vast expanse of black umbrellas. I had not one myself, though strangely enough I could not seem to feel the mist as it fell all around me; and I walked, not giving further thought to this when suddenly I realized that the figures of these walking people seemed to bend around me as if refracting in some bent frame or mirror warping their shapes around myself. I stopped dead in my tracks and reached out my arm to touch a passing woman. Her blackened shaped bent outward as if some liquid substance made its surface and I shrieked as each passing person accommodated form as such. Then it was that I realized the voices of the passing throng of people were merged as one dull burring as of many bees inside a barrel, echoing in unarticulated symmetry of sound. And why indeed did all of them wear black?

~N.C., Pornographic Suicide, The Lower Moon
07 October 2005 @ 11:03 pm
Its mind was a tangle of ingrown misery as it walked the black, scorched earth. Smoke poured from every crevice, choking out the air it no longer cared to breath. Were it not already dead it may have died soon enough in such a world as that in which it dwelled. Nought but a skeleton, feeling of the misery of death in life in a place where all was dead, yet still continued to exist. And death as most would claim to know it is nought but misery. Real death is another matter, for another page…

Here, all the world was nought but smoke and coal and all was strangely cold as the skeleton walked, its mind a barrage of all manner of jaded miseries, reflections of a past not quite remembered…

Images of flesh distorted and pupilless eyes sunk far into the faces of these unknown beings fraught with agony…

Whispering inflections passing softly through the many streams of smoke and echoing between the many fissures of the earth…

And soon all light as there was beyond this world by which it was illuminated died as well, and there was nought but the sensation of the smoke itself. Dry, acrid, and continually pouring forth the stench of misery…

And all was death in the sense of the perpetually dying…

Existence as nought but dying and the putrefaction of this death…

Nought but false death and the skeleton whose misery would never end…

~N.C., Pornographic Suicide, False Death
29 September 2005 @ 10:39 pm
In days long passed I had seen this type of thing before. Another fallen empire. Another murdered emperor and myriad cities fallen into chaos. Brother against brother, etc., ad nauseam. Naught but more slaves to feed the fire of usurpation in the recurring motif of victims eating victims, as was the very way of the ages.

~N.C., Pornographic Suicide, History's Ghost
28 September 2005 @ 06:04 pm
Eros closed his eyes and let the salty breeze slide coolly through curvatures of skin, like hands unknown, afraid to truly touch for fear that Eros might open his eyes and cast aside a heart that longed for him. For pleasure and beauty, for the mixing of souls with the pressing of flesh against flesh, kiss upon kiss, and the undying bond of true love…

But not even love mattered to him at this moment. This was bliss in nothing. Nothing needed and nothing wanted. Was this the clarity of which he’d dreamed? The dome of fog now seemed more a shell than a womb, no longer moving with the perpetual rhythm of dying and the suffering of this death. It was empty. It was innocence. To be filled to the brim with nothing. Bliss, untouched. To shimmer without light in a place where flying and falling are one and the same. To be so pure, so completely and truly alone, that nothing really mattered. The emptiness of bliss, to be without pain, but also to be without pleasure. One and the same? Pain a lack of pleasure, pleasure a lack of pain? Is it that beauty is simply a lack of things ugly? If so than how are things to be made beautiful without a comparison to things ugly?

But it was not as complicated as all that. It was simply nothing and that in itself was a thing of beauty. To be without beauty, rendering all things beautiful. There is no ugliness when there is nothing at all to see. And Eros saw nothing.

~N.C., Pornographic Suicide, The Dark Muse
25 September 2005 @ 11:30 pm
What cruel possessive eye out from which she sees, out from the eyes of her mother. A natural proclivity accentuated in the womb and in the walls of her prison. A prison not seen for the blindness of her infant eyes.

~N.C., Pornographic Suicide, The Princess
22 September 2005 @ 09:47 pm
Presently, I stood at my usual place of reverence and contemplated each contour of his skeleton. In recent years a black, hirsute spider, whose body alone was great as my own head, had taken residence in the farthest corner of the pit, feeding on whatever stray rat I beckoned daily with my blood.

The pit, whose sole occupants before the net of hooks had been too few of the most perfidious of all trespassers of my father’s former kingdom. Their skeletons lay too far below for me to see. The whole of my youth I had seen only three such executions. And all such executions were the cruelest of my father, the Merciful. I still remembered the days of his so-called rule. I’d watched from the time of my mother’s breast as the kingdom of the known world grew weaker with the dwindling of acts of war. I’d never been able to understand his complacency in regard to what was, in my eyes, a complete and utter failure.

Before my rule each door lining the walls of my dungeon had covered nought but rooms whose occupants wore manacles and were fed thrice daily of bread and water. And then even were they set free after pleading their repentance for a shorter span of years than that of which it took for a child to learn to walk…

I pricked my finger with my dagger, spilling myriad drops of blood upon my father’s skull, as was also my ritual and wont. At the disturbance of its web the spider lifted its front legs and flayed its mandibles, displaying scarlet fangs. Presently, I heard a squeaking and clattering of claws scraping stone. I smiled and waited and moved not to make my presence known. The rat peaked its feral head across the way at the perimeter opposite my own. It paused not but to climb the railing and make its passage round to find the source of which it smelled. I placed the point of my dagger to the railing directly in its path. When at last it reached my blade it flinched, pausing to examine this obstruction as I stared with cold contempt upon this brainless, hungering creature who knew nought but to eat and breed. It sniffed at first then tried biting its way beyond the sharp steel barrier. I smiled, and when at last it thought to skirt around I snatched it firmly by its furry neck. It squealed and hissed as I held it fast, its plump body thrashing, tail whipping round with the gyrations of its sordid struggle. It bared its yellow teeth, trying to turn its little head and to tear the flesh of its intruder. “Yes,” said I, as it squealed and hissed, “my little friend, you do so remind me of Radu. Would that there had been a legion of Radus. You could have been cousins. Alas.” With that I tossed the rat into the pit. It landed some distance from the spider and its mad thrashing only wound it further in thick strands of web. The spider commenced to move along its web with the quick, fluttering grace of which most distinguishes them from vertebrae. It slowed as it made its silent approach, and in a flash it had its legs about the rat’s plump body, of whose struggles diminished with the vice of the spider’s grip, but whose squeals and hisses then increased with its raw primordial fear. I saw as the spider’s fangs punched once and the rat immediately fell silent. The spider’s poison was at work. As always I found myself intrigued that in its feeding posture the spider no longer resembled a spider at all but appeared more to be some sort of strange growth which had almost entirely consumed its victim. Or perhaps it was more a representation of the arachnid in its truest and most exalted form…

~N.C., Pornographic Suicide, The Master