Obscurity Report (November 2015)
by Aurelia Aurita
Green Angel. Wading. Watching through black eyelette windows, framed with false lashes. Floating through your neck, your head. Building a nest in the empty cavity of your chest, and filling out your torsolette for once. Shacking up has never been this good. The Angel places her fingers on your glands. They increase in size. She builds a bridge of hair, desperate to connect a face to a mane.
She animates your drooping limbs, and you dance together. Slowly, Waltz... Gavotte, Contra, Conga, Bagurumba. Argentine Tango into full-speed Lindy Hop. Dance of Universal Peace. Dance of Death, Dance of the Bees (a.k.a. Waggle Dance).
Dizzy now, and stinking, with all the good china smashed to bits, she whispers through hollow facial passages: "You are a stranger in your own body." It roars and echoes like birth, spewing out through pursed lips. Lift your Soaking Skirt...the guest has become an intruder.
You've traded power for pleasure, extremities purposefully numbed through repetitive motion. You've been forced out. After carefully considering the option of remaining bodiless, a questionable decision is made to struggle up the dead arm, into the ear, and slide down the throat, cresting the illuminated wave of bile. A familiar dumping ground for white flowers, poison, and absurd memories. You chose to cling to the fleshy nightmare for the incomparable glory of pure sensation (snowblindness, pheromones, churchbells, fur). Awkward reintroduction... preserved fertility follicles, a tell-tale heart, all those extra bones... a formerly flagellating tentacle of self-hate, paralyzed by White Magick, dying in the small hours of dawn.