she opened the doorways with her cheap, cock sucking orifice.
Part vision, part dream, part memory, we find ourselves thinking of night, in some distant history, waking to the sound of waves lapping against the cabinet of crystals in the house of afrioca. we find ourselves watching a hologram of us, back when we only considered ourselves to be the singular: me, him, his, mine. he. we find ourselves watching a hologram of a man standing before a great hole in the balcony wall overlooking the sea. it was a cave entrance, twenty one stories above ground, opened up to the sky and sea of tankers, cruise ships, patrol boats, with no humans.
we remember the time following the black hole that appeared on our horizons for 3.33milliseconds. less than a blink of an eye that changed the DNA of reality as we knew it forever.
we remember standing in ankle deep sea water in the house, waiting for the girl with the cut throat, waiting for the bloated man, waiting to become the Archangel Ardenai. we remember descending the tower, the late night parties in the streets, the warehouses, basement rave clubs, a bar in the desert, the society of night.
we remembered coming home to a house full of whores. succubi, born from the fatal nocturnes of innocent girls, taken by the hand of gr’hg.
we ask Kei if she was one of them.
“I’ve made peace with that story.” was all she said, there on her knees, cleaning the remains of my old life force from the underbelly of my shaft.
we want to know the impulse that created you
was it the occasional wild dog that strays into our house?
eating rampant meat that grows from moss in the corners of the rooms?
do these dogs lay in the blankets that once covered sore bodies?
twitching and gnashing teeth through the night until morn when they
sometimes turn into hairless naked boys or
Babylonian priestess harlots?
are you one of these fierce sexual fiends?
we don’t know where she got the photographs. the ones of her modelling for young hearts lingerie.
she plastered them to the cracked room wall one night when we had passed out for a day and a half.
we woke up to those pictures, high gloss portraits of a slightly younger Kei
in light blue low cut mini panties, a cartoon baby seal printed on the crotch with the words ‘you make me happy’ above it; her face full of sadness and glistening tears.
Kei in white panties with tiny red and pink hearts and a bow at the centre of the waist band. The blotch of fresh blood on her crotch kept changing shapes.
Kei in various coloured neon wigs, in Japanese school girl uniforms, half burnt and torn, Thaipusam spikes through her tender cheeks.
Kei shrivelled and naked in Shibari ropes, bandaged, medical fetish Kei, mummified Kei, Butoh darkness Kei.
we woke up to see her scribbling long letters on the black wall with chalk, her slender back facing us, full of old lash marks. we lay there naked and limp, watching slow, transparent gel worms moving down the side of her inner thighs. we watched quietly for a long while as she tip toed, tensing her petite, nubile bum, to write Sanskrit passages on the higher wall.
“you were the most violent,” she said, breaking the silence, not turning to us, as if knowing we had stirred from formless sleep. “but you were also the most loving.”
“we don’t remember you that way. the violence we mean.”
“how do you remember me?” she turned, there were red ants on her teenage breasts, she dropped the chalk.
“bringing you to school.” we pointed to the pic of her in the japanese school girl uniform. “before the bombs fell. the snow. the unagi.”
“unagi? you never did a photoshoot with those things writhing in my cunt.”
“no, no. unagi the dish.”
she turned back to the wall, “I don’t remember liking that dish.”