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utan rubrik

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  lost somewhere in complex intestines of maintenance passages claustrophobic blind halls metal corridors in the dim blinking light of industrial lamps in soft whirr of huge fans venting the facility round the clock we're trespassing aimlessly just cos we can
  
  vandalism is my religion since transformation is sacrilege so i don't shy away from breaking stuff on the way thick transparent shells of the lamps crack like skulls when they shatter and the following darkness shines down with a brief relief
  
  we're both pretty worn down by an indefinite amount of hours spent together in that inevitable cycle of mutual consumption
  
  it is tired and sated a bit battered by the merciless usage yet so safe and full it's basically non-existent apart from the beast that takes us deeper into the rusty guts of a chemical plant he's proficient enough at trespassing to avoid the workers with perfect discretion although there are few because most are machines which seem just as battered as we are judging by the smell of mold and acidic taste the air leaves on the tongue yet the plant lives breathes regurgitates raw materials into rainbow vomit for further processing boiling down distilling refining splitting and sorting into all kinds of tubes and vials in production facilities everything is bright lit and so shiny due to glass and plastic it feels like christmas it's blinding annoying driving us back into shadows where we stick to each other quite literally missing the ability to merge together completely
  
  there's a passing moment brief memory of a tiny storeroom crowded with crates full of spare parts for the machines with an icy cold floor tiled walls where i shove him onto one of the crates and blow him once more deeply slowly carefully too cos by now his cock is almost as sore as my lips and my tongue or my throat and my jaws and the back of my neck and it takes a while to finish what i started because the process has been essentially exhausted and has lost its initial purpose which doesn't make him less abashed mainly by my desire to go on which exceeds my physical capabilities but also baffled by my rudeness as well that is precious and sweet almost innocent no less the way he sits there completely still and tries to keep quiet so there's hardly any noise aside from our heavy breathing and the soft distant buzz of machinery and the way his fingers twitch in my hair but don't push is worth the effort although in general i'm doing it just to show that i still can and he doesn't mind at all kisses me cautiously mixing the taste of his cum in my mouth with the irony savour of his own blood due to bite marks on his lips and his tongue that got chewn by my bestial teeth in the previous fuck session which took place on the scratchy sunset-lit surface of a warehouse roof some time prior when he twisted me in all sorts of angles to reach my mouth and force it open so he could keep tongue-kissing me in the process guess he liked the taste of my moans as they broke into yelps in response to his shoves until the thrill made me clench my teeth unwillingly or maybe not so unwillingly guess i like the taste of his blood way too much to prevent myself
  
  oh well must have been pretty tired if i failed to bite it off for good so he might consider it getting off lightly this time pun intended
  
  it is extremely peaceful so much that the whole storeroom falls completely out of time turning into an abstract symbol of a shared safespace it is a weird state that i find hard to cope with feeling lost for eternity cos that is too close close enough to make me talk about sensitive stuff like Rider and the way he managed to avoid the role of another bad guy in the row of bad guys i've been tempered by it is weird cos the topic's too dangerous overly personal coated in my good old ptsd yet the choice of time and space provides enough safety to balance it out or maybe the stress just escapes my attention which is basically absent at this point if not negative at all and i immediately switch to asking whether attention can be negative sending his pitiful scientific mind into a logical loop that is funny to watch especially with those lifetime straight A students who actually like to get to the bottom of things and take paradoxical situations too seriously at last he comes to the conclusion that it may be negative theoretically and i can't hold back from a mean allegation that considering his love for things theoretical no wonder all his dream partners have remained theoretical as well up till now but instead of getting insulted he just faintly smirks and says true i even jerk off theoretically so there's been no need to resort to practice ever and it doesn't surprise me much it would seem the only thing he bothers with practicing without any external prompt is substances controlled and not so much
  
  it's not surprising really as same as how visibly he relaxes upon getting into places such as this confined like coffins windowless stuffy filled with electric graveyard light with rare inclusions of ultraviolet lamps as a ridiculous surrogate of the sun constant purr of the fans heaters coolers heavy machinery endless plexuses of hallways narrow corridors tiny cabins to crawl into after the curfew as that is his native habitat the one i happened to submerge into a few years ago and i can hardly imagine how it must have felt for him from the beginning must be somewhat like that oldschool snake game having to fit all the miles of his antimatter presence into those noose-tight compartments without interlacing his own traces to avoid getting locked in a loop he barely speaks of his past in scarce detail when does but those crumbles i've picked up so far allow to suggest that it was a very different kind of personal hell than my own or anyone else's that i'm aware of a monotonous ornament of callousness decorating the inevitable noose the legacy of his dad and his mother's purely scientific interest with no heart strings attached for the short while it lasted
  
  (last time Rider caught me stalking him near the gun shop he frequents unable to overcome the attraction to his main area of expertise he told me he is no longer able to tell if i'm fine simply by my looks said it was good because the less readable i become the less remains in common to drag me down truth be told from the beginning nothing hurt more than his sad sincerity and open inability to neglect this self-defeating desire to roll back to make us stay friends without triggering me into that pale ghost of my past self he knows all too well that he would have to lobotomize me to burn out the reflexes he himself wired me with and i would so prefer him mad at me like he used to get rather than this sad and friendly but that's the thing eh he doesn't get mad anymore because we no longer relate enough)
  
  that's the thing eh that fucking birth trauma perpetuum mobile of the cycle of rebirth leaving behind a gory trace of empty shells until there's nothing left to crawl out from or to form a new one that's the fucking thing that the less you require in someone else's company the more you lose yourself in their presence the harder everything you neglect for the sake of sticking around comes crashing down on your head when you leave that company fall out of that presence and gain yourself back exactly like waking up from a beautiful dmt trip or a seizure all the more from a coma getting fucking born it's not a secret that i'm easily annoyed by things people do like fake laughing or fussing around sneezing coughing all that stuff but the one thing i can't be annoyed with is babies and toddlers crying aloud because whenever i hear that epitome of sorrow i can't help but relate and realize that it's pretty much the only thing i would do if i was able to
  
  that is why all of it upsets me so as well
  
  the sweetest absence of myself in marvellous radiance of this walking black sun total lack of needs as my brain slowly drowns in oxytocin in the back seat of my car on a deserted parking lot not far away from the city exit where we wait for another heavy rain to pass or rather just sit idly inside sharing a blunt unable to bear the thought of touching each other anymore due to a mere kinesthetic overdose that'll pass in a few hours the very idea of this combination is so hopeless that i fail to grasp why it takes place at all as he suddenly tells me he was bullied and called fag back in school since primary until roughly the time he started dealing - cuz well d-boiz y'kno gotta cop an attitude when y'all kids 'n shit - and i can't help tripping over his cranky ghetto slang whenever he actually starts talking because given his grim reaper image cybergoth elegance samurai modesty it's hard to expect even harder to get used to somehow but weed and oxytocin filter it into something truly brilliant so i can't help laughing and he says - it hadn't anything to do with me bein' gay u lil idjet cuz back then i wasn't - which only makes it worse so he ends up cornering himself into that trap of having to clarify once again seeing that i'm fucking hysterical and can't do anything about it and he keeps digging his grave telling me he complimented a boy in the second grade and it stuck cos came out too serious and as hilarious as it sounds i imagine it wasn't the case in reality it probably was that grim reaper despair that adds a funeral note to every little smile of his as seldom as they come it's hard for kids to comprehend which makes it scary on itself not to mention his werewolf eyes or his fucking height although it wasn't that outstanding back then i assume and when he finally shuts up and gives me a break to catch a breath i proceed with telling him that i probably was very lucky to have never attended school in the first place cos if i did i'd much likely wind up either in a nuthouse or a juvie real fast like during my second week probably and he says yea mayhap but u wouldn't put up with shit like that for years just cuz skurred to accidentally mash 'em too bad wouldja
  
  were i a scientist i'd call it a gorilla in a china shop syndrome cos that care for keeping little things intact contradicts the constant urge to smash all that fussy shit into shreds you don't have to tell me that except that in my case the urge always wins in the end well he did mash 'em too bad after all as well so it was only a matter of patience rather than fear now patience is one thing i lack that's the main reason i'm eating half the time he feels like talking and tripping on various shit through the other half of it so i can only remember separate bits and pieces afterwards like the confession i heard when got curious whether it felt agoraphobic to surface up after spending almost 30 years so deep underground on the very rock bottom and he responded that being alive has always been too claustrophobic by itself so it doesn't really matter where exactly to feel claustrophobic be it above or below and it serves too precise a description of my own main problem to miss
  
  considering the dear leader was deemed dromomaniac as a teenager according to his own statement it must be hereditary that sometimes i can't bear the thought of staying inside the desire to get lost somewhere is so bad it drives me crazy and eventually leads into the woods where i came from that is my native habitat and it calls and pulls me in tangibly most of the time when i'm alone out of this antimatter trap with black walls and his monitor being the only source of light just the screen and rectangular reflections of it in his glasses and my incessant backseating as he tries to play anything in my presence proves both annoying and adding to the experience and the woods are lost in the shadows i am lost in the shadows in that pitch black tea in his big black cup that smells of soil and tastes like diesel i successfully drown and lose track of time being fully aware how grim and dangerous all this shit is which adds a special ting of bitterness to every sip
  
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